


Nothing Without You

by holmesian_love



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Parent!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:27:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25476886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holmesian_love/pseuds/holmesian_love
Summary: Parent!lock - post S4Sherlock and John have settled into life in Baker Street with Rosie, and life has returned to something relatively normal. Until Sherlock is called on a case which has a much bigger impact on him than he expects and forces him to admit things he never expected to.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 136
Kudos: 201
Collections: HolmesCon Writers Collection





	1. A Case

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ничто без тебя](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25513936) by [Fanfiction_Johnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanfiction_Johnlock/pseuds/Fanfiction_Johnlock)



The call had come through very early. There was a time when 4:30am was early. For both of them. Before Rosie, when things were simpler. At 4:30am, John would normally be blissfully sleeping for a few peaceful hours before his alarm. Back when they would run about town on cases and he would try to also be a productive G.P. 4:30am was prime sleeping time for him. Even Sherlock was known to have a couple of hours sleep after staying up for most of the night. Yes, 4:30am used to be their peaceful time at Baker Street.

But now it was prime awake time for Rosie. She wanted cuddles and then attention and then food and 4:30am was always awake time. The call was still a surprise, but they were well and truly awake. In fact, Sherlock was on all fours, Rosie balanced on his back.

“Moh, Unk Tehrok, mohhhh” She said frustrated, as she tried to make him move around the floor.

“Yes little Bee, I know you want more. Uncle Sherlock will give you more rides. Steady on,” Sherlock replied, glancing up at John with what was supposed to be annoyance and pleading, but dissolved into laughter as Rosie giggled and wriggled on his back. How could anyone not start to giggle? John did love listening to how Sherlock had unending patience for her, something he had never seen him bother with any other time. It had been one of the lovely surprises of moving back to Baker Street.

Sherlock’s phone buzzed on the table.

“Get that will you John? Somehow I don’t think this little tyrant is going to let her Unk Tehrok stop.”

John smiled at him, “You know, it’s not her fault you have a ridiculous name that’s impossible for her to say.”

“Probably a good thing you didn’t name her Sherlock then, I guess.”

“We were _never_ naming her Sherlock you git.” He laughed shaking his head as he walked over to pick the phone up off the table, wrapping his dressing gown tighter as he walked.

“It’s Greg,” he said, holding the screen up to show Sherlock, as if it needed confirmation. "Lestrade," he added with an annoyed sigh, as Sherlock's blank face stared back.

“Oh?” Sherlock stopped moving, much to Rosie’s annoyance.

“Greg, what’s up? Yes, he’s here, he’s just…oh yes sure, hang on.” John looked over to Sherlock, “he needs to talk to you.”

“Ah… sorry bug.”

“No no Tehrok!” Rosie began to cry. Sherlock sat up, gently placing her on the ground and John smoothly swept her up and onto his hip, handing Sherlock the phone. He bounced Rosie on his hip, moving away down the corridor to allow Sherlock to hear, but to be close enough to listen in. The hairs on the back of his neck standing up, and ready for battle. At this hour, Mrs Hudson would probably be awake and would be willing to take Rosie. She was always an early riser. John felt a stab of guilt at how instantly his pulse had quickened at the idea of leaving his daughter to go on a case.

“Lestrade? Right. Where? Absolutely. Twenty minutes.” And he hung up the phone walking straight past John to his bedroom to get dressed.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, just getting dressed,” he said dismissively.  
  
“Well give me a minute, I’ll take Rosie downstairs and get ready. Where are we going?”

In record time, Sherlock was already out of his room. John had no idea how he did that. Suit pants on, tucking a shirt in as he walked, a jacket balanced on the tips of his fingers.

“It’s fine John, I’ve got this one.” Sherlock flashed him a casual smile of reassurance which did nothing to reassure him.

“Oh. No it’s not a problem. Rosie would love to see Nana Hudson wouldn’t you bub? It’s been a while since our last case.”

“Really John, it will be a quick one by the sounds, a ‘three' at best. In and out. I’ll be back in time for second breakfast.” There was that smile again, and this time shifty eyes, avoiding John’s, as he checked his hair in the lounge room mirror and grabbed his shoes from the floor near the table, sitting quickly to put them on.

“Sherlock—”  
  
“John, it’s fine. You stay with Rosie and have a quiet morning,” he rushed.

“Sherlock!”

“Fine,” he stopped, rolling his eyes, as he stood up. “Lestrade doesn’t want you there.”

“What?” John stopped bouncing Rosie on his hip in shock.

“He asked me not to bring you okay? Just let me go and see. You know I’ll need you to help me. Just let me do the crime scene alone.” He walked over and put his hand on Johns arm. “I won’t be long. Look after Daddy, Bee,” he said, leaning in to rub his nose to Rosie’s, their special goodbye. With a quick flick of his eyes up to John, he swept out and down the stairs.

John was left pouting in the middle of the room.


	2. A Crime Scene

As the cab let him out, Sherlock took in the police cars, their blue lights decorating the dark street. For a moment, it reminded him of a nightclub, the lights flashing against the brick walls of the surrounding residences, announcing to all in the area that this was a crime scene. He always felt somehow uncomfortable with it - that a crime scene should be a private, intimate space between detective and victim. They were surprisingly quiet - crime scenes. Apart from the loud flashes of the forensic photographer's camera, people always spoke in hushed tones, lots of heavy thought taking place, lots of treading softly. So it always caught him off guard, how _loud_ the police lights made the space feel - particularly at night. He often flinched a few times when arriving at a scene before his eyes would adjust. Sherlock dodged the three police cars blocking the entry way, ignored the officer asking for his ID and lifted the yellow crime scene tape to head down the narrow lane. He always felt a thrill in those first minutes of arrival - the puzzle waiting to be solved, his brain like a racehorse bucking behind the barrier waiting for release.

It was still too early for the sun to be up. The buildings blocked any opportunity for the rising light to shine through anyway, so it would be a while until natural light graced the space. Sunrise wasn’t for another hour at least either way. He could see Lestrade up ahead, Donovan and Anderson leaning in speaking with him in hushed tones, probably deciding a plan of attack. Despite not really liking or respecting either of them much, there was a certain comfort in the routine of working together again. The Superintendent, deciding that Sherlock’s name could be cleared, allowed Anderson to eventually come back to work as well, after his time on leave. There was a new respect between them all, Anderson having become a bit of a fan in Sherlock’s absence. And yet, somehow, when they were together on a crime scene, they reverted back to old habits. Sherlock preferred it that way, though. He would never consider them friends. He worked better alone and being despised by everyone else around him. He liked to irritate people and he found an honesty in that which the forced niceties of a workplace generally hid.

As he approached, Lestrade heard his footsteps and turned.

“Ah good, Sherlock,” he said, his eyes lighting up, but no smile graced his mouth. This was a crime scene and one couldn’t be seen to smile at a crime scene.

“What have we got?” Sherlock asked, absent mindedly lifting his collar up, telling himself it was because the laneway was colder, but really it was an instinctive behaviour which told everyone around he was ready for business.

“Victim’s in the skip. Found this morning by one of the workers in the bakery,” Lestrade said simply

“Okay,” Sherlock began, waiting for more information.

“Where’s your lapdog?” Anderson teased. Lestrade shot him an annoyed look. Sherlock ignored him as usual. He knew Anderson was always jealous that he had not made it to Sherlock’s inner friendship circle even after his dedication and apologies.

“Hey, that’s enough,” Lestrade’s voice was firm. "I asked him not to bring John.”

“Yes, and why _did_ you do that? He’s not happy about it,” Sherlock announced.

“Sherlock…” Lestrade warned. Now was not the time for jest.

“Problem?” He asked, the tone of Lestrade’s voice had been warning, but he turned away to look at the skip and take in the surrounding lane.

“The vic is a child,” he said, as if this made any sense to his reasoning.

Sherlock stopped, turning to look at Lestrade. Donovan turned her face away, not able to look at Sherlock and he noticed. It distracted him for a moment. What was he missing? His eyes narrowed, trying to deduce what the reaction was for. Clearly Donovan had seen the body and wasn’t comfortable with it.

“A young girl, not more than two or three years old, I’d say,” Lestrade said, his voice laced with meaning that Sherlock was missing.

“That’s why you didn’t want John here?” Sherlock looked back toward the skip. The photographer was already flashing the camera, adjusting angles, getting first glimpses of the scene and Sherlock was annoyed. He liked to get the first look. The police were notoriously stupid at crime scenes, not understanding the delicate nature of evidence. There had been a number of occasions where Sherlock knew he could have solved the case faster had he been first on scene without their interference.

“I just thought…with Rosie…it might be…this girl might remind him…well you’ll see,” he said awkwardly.

Sherlock had never been nervous at a crime scene in his life. Not once. But the fact that Lestrade felt it was not appropriate for John, made him suddenly doubt himself. He distracted himself putting on his usual crime scene persona, directing Lestrade.

“Clear everyone out Lestrade. If you want me to be of any use.” It was so much easier to be a prick to everyone. They expected it and it was efficient. Sherlock was demanding and arrogant, but Lestrade knew there were countless cases that would never have been solved were it not for Sherlock. So he gave the detective a fair amount of slack as a result.

“Freak’s on site,” Donovan called out to the people closer to the skip, before Lestrade could say anything. He shot her a look and she responded with raised eyebrows as if to challenge him. Even so, she turned without a word and walked back towards the police cars, to guard the laneway. Her heels clacking as she went. The noise was irritating. He never understood why women wore heels for police work - particularly to a crime scene of all places. At least Donovan knew it was best for her to be out of Sherlock’s space. Even after everything that had happened, she was staunch in her belief that he didn’t belong here and jealous that Lestrade valued his opinion too much. She thought Greg used Sherlock as a crutch, like an addiction, and she was sure if he really took the time, he would be able to solve a lot of the cases on his own. If he only tried. Or if he only let _her_ try.

“Ok folks, you know the drill. Let’s clear out- take five,” he announced to them all. There was a couple of moans from officers who were well versed in the Sherlock routine. The newer, more obedient officers just did what they were told. A few of them looking Sherlock up and down, taking in the mysterious detective, his coat and scarf cutting an impressive figure of authority about it. One of the younger ones whispered to a colleague trying to find out who this person was:

_“Why does he get time on the scene?”  
“Just wait. You’ll see,” they replied appreciatively._

Sherlock heard and tried not to smirk. He was mostly focussed on the skip ahead. It was blue metal, very battered and rusted. The laneway was behind a row of shops and there were a series of other skips and bins further down, but this one was isolated.

“Has the skip been moved?” He asked Lestrade with urgency.

“No, nothing has been touched yet. We kept the perimeter clean. The boys have been cataloging the rest of the laneway, checking the brickwork. I’ve kept it pristine for you.”

Sherlock nodded. “Gloves?”

“Oh I didn’t think you’d, ah…”

“I think in this case…it might be a good idea.” He didn’t really explain himself. He didn’t want to make any mistakes. If this was a young child, he needed everything to be by the book. Greg handed him a box he had obviously already been holding for the others, and Sherlock grabbed a pair of gloves out, starting to put them on, keeping his eyes fixed on the skip the whole time, processing. They had set up a couple of lights to shine on the laneway, to give them better lighting.

He walked towards the skip slowly, looking at the surrounding ground and walls as he went, glancing up at the windows and pipes, trying to figure out location, access points, anything of use. Why this laneway? Why this skip? Convenience? Accident? Or something else?

“Find out when rubbish collection day is, from the bakery staff,” Sherlock directed back at Lestrade over his shoulder, as he walked closer.

“Anderson…” Lestrade directed.

“On it,” he announced, running off eagerly to find out the information. His renewed enthusiasm and lack of sarcasm was far more irritating, Lestrade and Sherlock both thought to themselves but neither said anything.

Sherlock reached the skip finally and glanced in before putting his hands on the edge, bending his knees and leaping agilely over the edge to the inside.

There she was, squeezed roughly between garbage bags and almost not visible. He grabbed a couple of the bags around her and threw them out over the edge of the skip to get better access, crouching beside her body. Pulling out a pen torch from his coat pocket, he held it between his lips to free up his hands and see more clearly. One look at her and he knew _exactly_ why Lestrade didn’t want John on site. This small girl, with beautiful blonde curls. This was why. Her pink shirt had a rainbow and clouds on it, although it was faded and well worn and was now ruined with blood stains. Her corduroy pants in a dark maroon sitting just below her little belly which poked out between the shirt and the top of her pants. Already there was a mixture of dirt and bruising on her gut, although in this light, Sherlock couldn’t be certain how much of each. Her hair was matted on one side of her head with blood, and Sherlock noticed the headband she wore to tame her curls had two little bumblebees on it. Rosie loved bees too and the realisation created a stab in his chest, as he sucked in a breath. His eyes glazed over as the memory of this morning flashed into his mind:

_“Moh, Unk Tehrok, mohhhh!”_

Rosie’s voice clear in his mind. Her little giggle invading his thoughts. He shook his head to clear the image and let out a big sigh. This was not Rosie.

He reached out to move a small sandy blonde curl from her forehead, pausing briefly as his gloved hand brushed over the skin of her brow and he was suddenly remembering tucking Rosie into bed, moving her curls away from her face as she slept peacefully.

“Oh my goodness, little bee…what happened here?” He said softly to her, under his breath.

_Not Rosie. It’s not Rosie._

Sherlock shook his head again. He needed to focus. This was not John’s little girl. This was someone else’s little girl and he needed to solve this and find the person who would take the life of a beautiful girl like this one and leave her in such an awful place, in the cold and alone, waiting to be found. _John’s little girl._ John would not have been able to cope with this sight, Lestrade had been right about that. But it surprised him how much it was affecting him as well. He had always been excellent at ignoring the human side of any crime scene. Detachment was his most honed skill. Proudly so. And yet now, he was feeling a strange shift.

Rosie had invaded all of Sherlock’s life and brought more laughter and sunlight into Baker Street than he had ever known possible. John had always been his conductor of light. He had told John so, even. But they had always shared a quiet intensity as friends that was different. They could have a laugh too, of course, and often did. But they were both serious so much of the time. Having John back at Baker Street was an easy decision. Of course he wanted John back. The fact that he came with Rosie had initially been a concern. But he had quickly learned that it could be a blessing as well. Children brought out smiling and fun and laughter. And they had both been learning how to embrace more of that in their lives. Rosie had brought them such joy. But she was not Sherlock’s child. Not even close. He was “Uncle Sherlock”. He knew that. But it didn’t hurt any less to see this girl now, the resemblance to Rosie almost uncanny.

He tried not to think of Rosie. That would not help him work. Grabbing the torch out of his mouth, he angled his head from side to side taking in the body and the surrounding scene, moving the torch about as needed. Looking for clues. _Back to it Holmes_ , he thought to himself. He lifted her arm up to find bruises, her wrist and forearm soft and clearly broken in more than one place. Shining the torch on her fingernails he could see there was evidence they would need to scrape. Moving her hair away from her neck slightly, more bruising. She was missing a shoe, he noted, her stripy rainbow sock dirty with a little hole near the big toe.

He had seen enough to get started and he knew he couldn’t stay in here with her much longer. They needed to process the scene. He closed his eyes for a moment, pursing his lips.

“Leave it with me, little bee. I’ve got this,” he said quietly to her, placing a hand on her shoulder gently in reassurance.

He would never have let any of the team see a display like that and he even surprised himself at the sudden need to do it. But hidden inside the skip, he couldn't stop himself. If it was _his_ Rosie, he would want her taken care of this way. No, not _his_ Rosie. _John's_ Rosie, he corrected. A second later he had snapped out of his thoughts, turning the torch off to place it back in his pocket and let out a loud resigned breath, as he stood up. He pulled himself back out and over the skip edge, landing face to face with Lestrade. _I wonder if he heard any of that,_ Sherlock thought briefly.

“Have her taken straight to Molly Hooper at Barts,” he said formally as he pulled off his gloves and handed them to Lestrade. “I will liaise with her, she’ll know what to do. And be careful when you’re moving her. Don’t let Anderson do it!”

“What have you got for me?” Lestrade asked, already grabbing out his notepad. Sherlock moved fast once he threw out his deductions and you had to be ready or you’d miss it. He noted that Sherlock said “ _her”_ , when talking about the body. That was not his usual style. He was usually far more impersonal and detached. He worried briefly, about whether having Sherlock take on this case might have been a bad idea. John was of more obvious concern, but it had not initially occurred to Greg that Sherlock could be upset by it too. After all, little Rosie was living in his flat now. But before he could ask, Sherlock had started his flurry of words.

“I suspect it’s abuse, gone too far. I want to wait for more information - see how the bruises come up tomorrow.

The light here isn’t good. I can’t do this properly here. She needs to be moved _very_ carefully, though. Get all the bags from the skip too - have them taken back to The Yard and sifted through, catalogued - e _verything_. Probably the rubbish from the others as well - they may have dumped something in a separate bin.”

Greg began making notes quickly and gave the officers a nod who had already edged closer, eager to get back in there.

“I suspect you’re looking for a young male. Very young. A father. Probably unmarried, possibly in a de facto relationship, maybe even a teenager. That’s all I’ve got for now. I will come by later to the yard. I need to get some things first.”

“Great. Sherlock…” Lestrade began finally looking up from his notepad.

But Sherlock had already walked out of the laneway, down the street, and away as fast as possible. He was so distracted, he didn’t even acknowledge Donavan or Anderson as he passed them both, quietly in conversation. Donovan made some smart arse remark but he was oblivious. The image of the little girl burned into his mind and warring with the image of little Rosie from this morning.

He walked for a good thirty minutes along the streets, wandering aimlessly, with no clear direction, until he had reached the Thames. The morning light had risen finally and early morning joggers were going about their day, squeezing their exercise in before the bustle of getting to work. Sherlock walked to the railing and stood looking at the river, letting the breeze blow against his face, cooling the flushed feeling as his head spun out of control. Suddenly he ran to a nearby bin and emptied the contents of his stomach. That had never happened before. In all his years on case work. Not once. How was he going to manage this case, and keep John away?

He wiped his lips with the end of his scarf, before walking to the curb and hailing a cab to take him back to Baker Street.


	3. A Lie

Sherlock practically threw himself out of the flat and onto the street. It had started to rain in earnest, the weather already shifting dramatically in the time he had been inside. The street was quiet, still in the early hours of the day with no cabs about. He buttoned his coat around him and lifted his collar to brace himself against the weather, fluffing his scarf a bit more. Never one to bother with an umbrella, he placed his hands in his pockets and walked briskly to the end of Baker Street in the hope of finding a cab on the main road. The rain water was particularly cold this morning and it stung the skin on his cheeks. If he had been travelling with John, they would have called ahead to ensure a cab, but that was always John's task, and Sherlock was stubborn. He would rather walk in the freezing rain just to get away from the flat faster. To get away from John and Rosie. As he squinted against the onslaught of moisture, he thought back over what had just happened.

He had needed to come back to Baker Street. There was a couple of books and his tools that would be useful for this case, particularly if he wanted to stay away from the flat for a bit. He would need those things with him, but he had desperately not wanted to face John. He knew Rosie would probably be down for her morning nap after their lively play time earlier. There was no way he would have attempted coming into the flat if Rosie would be awake. Not in the state he was in. He couldn’t look into those eyes. Not now. But there was still John as well. John of course, had been peacefully reading a book in his chair. The scratchy sounds of the baby monitor the only noise, as it sat beside John on the coffee table - notifying them as Rosie shuffled restlessly in her cot, or sucked loudly on her thumb. Sherlock entered the flat, tentative and uncertain. He already felt guilty and unprepared for this. John closed his book, with great patience, taking in Sherlock’s mood, controlling his own very well.

“She’s down,” he confirmed with a gentle whisper.

Sherlock looked up towards John’s bedroom, without making eye contact, even though he couldn’t see anything from down in the lounge. Just a habit, as if he could sense her to check, just by glancing. He closed his eyes momentarily in relief, before snapping his eyes open, hoping John didn’t notice.

“Sherlock…”

“Yes,” he answered, avoiding John as he moved straight over to the bookcase with purpose, trying to find what he needed.

“The case?” John asked gently. Not pressing, or insisting. Just treading carefully.

“Yes, John. As I expected, it’s only a ‘two’, like I told you,” Sherlock replied, moving to his desk to shuffle the mess of papers around, opening the drawer and closing it again before stopping to look around the room thinking about where he had last put it.

“Great, so you’ve left it to Lestrade then?” John asked.

“What? No.” Sherlock answered, “I decided I had nothing going on, so I would help anyway,” He still could not look at John, moving to the kitchen to shuffle around in the drawers and cupboards in there.

“Ok then, well shall I…?”

“No. John, no. It’s really not necessary,” he continued on his mission - still keeping his eyes busy.

“What have you lost?” John asked slightly annoyed.

“My leather bound tools. The magnifying glass…you know the ones…”

Sherlock knew that even though he was really looking for them, he was also using it as a very good excuse to avoid making eye contact and he could sense it was starting to infuriate John. But John didn’t say a word about it. He just got up, balanced his book on the arm of his chair, and calmly walked across the room to grab it from one of the bookshelves, holding it out for Sherlock to collect.

“You had it out yesterday. Remember? I told you not to put it there or you would lose track of it…” John said quietly, more to himself, as he stood waiting for Sherlock.

Sherlock stopped the frantic shuffling, and looked sheepishly at John, his tail definitely between his legs. He still tried to avoid looking at John, but John gave him a steely glare which he couldn’t ignore. Sherlock gave him a slightly apologetic look.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. John let out a frustrated sigh.

“Sherlock…do you…do you not want me to come on cases any more? Is there something I’ve missed?”

“No. I didn’t say that,” Sherlock replied quickly, grabbing the tools out of John’s hand finally, moving away quickly again.

“So what’s going on then?” John asked gently.

“I just don’t need you for _this_ case, that’s all. It’s not worth your time, honestly.”

“Is it _just_ this case then?”

“Yes just _this_ one?”

“Why?” John asked. He always knew what to ask. It was part of why he was so important to Sherlock.

“It doesn’t matter why.” It was only a little lie.

“Look Sherlock, whatever it is, I want to help. _Please_.”

Sherlock looked at John again finally. And for a brief moment he nearly told him everything. He so desperately needed to tell him everything. But it would be too much for John to bear. It was better this way. The pause between them felt like an age, as John waited hopefully and Sherlock refused to speak.

Suddenly, the sound of Rosie stirring chirped on the monitor and Sherlock actually recoiled at the noise. Enough so that John noticed, and gave him a look that was something mixed between confusion, surprise and disappointment. 

John let out a sigh, “Just, don’t go anywhere, okay? I’m not finished.” John looked tired, and worried. But he left the room to deal with Rosie.

_Rosie._

_How was he going to handle seeing Rosie? Playing with Rosie and not thinking about this girl? Why had it suddenly infected him so completely? He had always been able to separate himself so easily from cases._

Sherlock quickly moved towards his room, he needed to change if he was going to stay out on the case for more hours in this cold weather. To stay away from the flat. He couldn’t stay here. Even from his room, he could hear the metallic sounds of John singing to Rosie in the upstairs room, as it echoed around the flat. He usually found it comforting, smiling to himself at the little songs and stories that John would use to get her to go back to sleep a little longer. But today it was like vicious stabs to his heart. _Every single sound_. He changed quickly into some warmer attire and better shoes - the outfit he’d worn to the crime scene a rush job at 4am. He was satisfied with the suit he had chosen, which had a bit more movement in the sleeves and a slightly warmer lining, and his sturdier shoes that wouldn’t let as much cold onto his socks. He quickly gathered his books and tools, wrapped a scarf around his neck and rushed out the door and down the stairs before John could return to the lounge.

* * *

As he walked down Baker Street, his coat protecting him fairly well from the rain, he looked up at the sky. The clouds barred the sun from giving any indication of the time of day. The gloom had clearly set in for the day. Something about the weather today really settled in his chest. It was somehow right that it should be raining like this on such a sad day. A little girl had died. It _should_ be raining. He had never thought about the families of his victims before, but suddenly he was acutely aware of the fact that Lestrade or one of the team would have to visit the family of that little girl to tell them their girl had died. If they could even find out who she was.

God he hoped Anderson had got the crew moving this morning. As irritating as he was, he was punctual and meticulous with procedure, and he was always the one to get the body moved out properly. If they had not moved that body and the rest of the items from the crime scene quickly enough, they would be fighting the elements right now. He hoped they had followed his orders.

_Text Sent: On my way Molly. Please tell me the body is already there?_

_Text Sent: It’s en route don’t worry Sherlock. They beat the rain. See you soon._

Molly knew. She understood how important it was. Molly was the most useful friend he had - next to John.


	4. A Betrayal

"Hey Molly, is Sherlock with you?” John’s voice was concerned but she could hear he was trying to stay casual and calm.

It made Molly’s heart clench a little as she prepared herself. “Sorry. Ah no, _sorry_. I haven’t seen him. Sorry John.” She winced as she realised she had apologised more than was probably usual, even for her. She was trying not to draw attention to herself. She wasn’t great at lying though.

“Ok. Thanks… just… can you let me know if he comes in?” He asked hopefully.

“Sure,” she replied simply as she hung up the phone and looked to Sherlock.

“Okay, why am I lying to John?” She asked, looking confused.

“You’ve seen the body, haven’t you?” He asked her.

“No. I was waiting for you,” she replied, a slight blush rising on her cheeks.

“Really?” Sherlock stopped, surprised.

“Yes,” the blush deepened, “I always enjoy watching the moment when you open the body bag. It’s kind of… ceremonial. Is that silly?” She couldn’t believe she was admitting to that.

“No.” Sherlock was genuinely surprised that he and Molly had that in common. “Not at all. In fact, I completely agree.” He gave her a half smile, in appreciation for their shared understanding. For a moment he took Molly in. Her pony tail dripping down her back, which was so neatly created and yet, she always had fly-away hairs around her face. _Was it deliberate?_ She always seemed to dress as if she was in a hurry, or didn’t care what her ensemble looked like. It was charming in a way, and annoying in another. But Sherlock supposed that when you worked with dead people, no-one really minded what you were wearing. Molly had been a steadfast part of their lives for years now. It never got old watching her fumble and blush around him. Sometimes he used it to his advantage. He knew he should feel guilty, but he didn’t. John often scolded him for it. She did it less often since the incident on the phone. The understanding between them that the “I love you” was nothing beyond friendship, was cleared up, and Molly had gone back to being “just Molly”. This was the first time since then, that they had been alone without John, just standing in a room together. But Sherlock suddenly realised he didn’t know how to make good conversation with Molly. That was always John’s area. _Focus on the case, Sherlock, he reminded himself._

“Right, well this time _you_ open the bag and I’ll watch. I want to see your reaction when you see her.” Molly’s eyes snapped to his and a strange look crossed her face. He stopped for a moment assessing that look. _What did I say?_

“Then you’ll understand.” He stood a little straighter, his hands in his pockets. Waiting.

Molly had never felt nervous unzipping a cadaver pouch before. But Sherlock’s strange behaviour suddenly made her hyper aware and butterflies kicked in. As she pulled the zip down slowly, she felt Sherlock watching her face way too closely. Not the body. She was always self conscious around Sherlock but this was worse than usual. She felt herself praying the zipper didn’t stick under the pressure. _Just breathe, Molly_ , she told herself. _You know how to move a zipper for heaven’s sake._ As she pulled aside the top of the bag, she couldn’t help letting out a soft gasp, her eyes moving straight to Sherlock’s again. His face was grim, hardened, as he took in the body again. She could see him gripping his jaw a little tighter, the muscles moving as he clenched.

“Oh Sherlock… she’s just like…” Molly began as she looked at the little girl again, her head tilted in sympathy.

“Yes, I know.” In the brighter lights of the morgue Sherlock was struck a second time by the similarities and it hurt. It took his breath away and his chest actually hurt.

“Oh, John should _not_ see this,” she said under her breath.

“I know.” His voice was resigned. Now she understood.

“But you…” She didn’t know how to tackle this with him. This would have to be affecting him too.

“I’m fine. Rosie’s not _my_ daughter.” Sherlock said it coldly, but his voice cracked slightly and it broke Molly’s heart. Of course Sherlock wouldn’t know how to deal with these feelings. They had _all_ had a hand in raising Rosie. It hurt Molly’s heart to see this girl, lying here, looking so much like Rosie. She couldn’t imagine how much distress it must be bringing Sherlock now that they all lived together. She could see his eyes were a bit glassy, but he was standing strong, trying hard to ignore his own reaction.

“But Sherlock…”

“I’ll be fine, Molly.” It was a gentle warning to stop. “I just wanted you to see her before we start…”

“Ok. If you’re sure, then fine.” Molly understood when Sherlock was not open to conversation. They had worked together for a long time now and she could respect that. He needed to remain focussed on the case. “I’ll have to go and prepare some paperwork first. Do you want to go up and work in your lab for a bit and I’ll let you know when I’m ready? Lestrade already sent a few things over from the scene to look at which I had put upstairs.”

“Yes, that’s fine. Let’s get to it, though. We don’t want the family waiting longer than they have to, they deserve answers for her.”

Molly nodded, but didn’t say anything. He said _her_. Three times. He’d never referred to bodies like that before. Not in all the years they’d worked together.

* * *

“Molly?” John answered the phone so quickly, concerned, and ready. He obviously had been sitting with it in his hand, staring and waiting desperately for the call. It gave Molly a jolt.

“John. I just…I need to talk to you.” She sounded nervous, cautious. More so than usual.

“Is he _there_?” John asked urgently.

“He is, but John…” she hesitated. _Was she doing the right thing?_

“What is it Molly?” He was impatient. Molly was trying to formulate words. _How could she tell him?_

“John, the case. It’s a…” she swallowed hard. “It’s a little girl. The victim, is a little girl.” She waited a moment to let that sink in. “They thought it best to leave you out of the loop because it’s a little girl, John.”

“And?” John was confused.

“Only… I think he needs you. Sherlock. He’s… I think you should come to Bart’s.” Molly sounded incredibly guilty. “He’s here.”

“I’ll just get Mrs Hudson to…” John began. She could hear him already moving about as he talked. Rosie was playing in the background, singing to herself. It made Molly's heart clench. _Was this the right thing to do? To bring him into this, when Sherlock specifically asked her not to?_

“Only John, you need to know first...” she said firmly to grab his attention and she heard him stop.

“What is it Molly?” He was getting impatient with her. She always thought it was funny that someone as difficult as Sherlock could have ended up best friends with someone who actually had _less_ patience than he did, and yet they made it work.

She sighed, resigned to the fact she was going to do this. “The little girl. She looks so much like Rosie… it’s… alarming. So I think Lestrade thought it would be too upsetting for you. But he didn’t factor into it that Sherlock… I think he’s… I think he needs you here. Can you handle it?”

“Of course, Molly. I’m a doctor _for god’s sake,_ ” he huffed out on a gush of air, the reality of what had been going on slamming him in the gut. She could tell he was annoyed now, and frustrated that he had been underestimated. But he was probably used to that. Sherlock did it all the time. He never realised just how important John was to him in solving the cases. Before John came along, Sherlock’s methods were way more chaotic and inconsistent. John had brought a certain focus to his work. He had been at his best when he worked with John. Molly saw it. _Everyone_ saw it. She was a little jealous of it, if she was honest.

“Yes, that’s what I thought too,” she admitted. "I think actually Sherlock’s not going to be able to do this. Without you. Will you come? …John?”

But John had already hung up. Molly only had to hope that Sherlock would understand.


	5. A Discovery

Sherlock sat in his lab, it felt like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. This little girl needed justice. In all his years working cases, and seeing bodies, none had ever impacted him like this one. He was irritated that it was causing so much of an issue. _He was highly intelligent and scientific. Why was he letting this get to him?_

Ever since he had been back, he had struggled with the realisation that he and John were never going to be back to the way they were. In some ways, things were better. In others, they were both more distracted. Rosie had been a part of the reason for that. But also there had been so many unspoken things between them. Sherlock had never really explained his two year stint away, and the reason why he left. John had never really explained how things had been for him and how and why he had met Mary. Why he had rushed to marry her. Sherlock had always felt that was a bad decision. But he had done what he could to support them, to support _him_. In his own mind, he had always expected John to be there when he returned. To be at Baker Street, and accepting him with open arms. He had hoped John would’ve solved the puzzle and known the truth already, and they would laugh over a glass of port by the fire one night. How clever they had all been.

The reality of his return had been cold and hard to take. He had managed, but things had never been the same and he had spent a good part of the last couple of years mourning the loss of John as his partner in crime. He had always expected that one day he would get around to confessing his true feelings and it would have been an easy progression. Their friendship had always been strong and intense. Loyal and fiery. He longed for it to be that way again. He would settle for platonic love if it could have some of that again. But John had become settled and different. He had lost some of his faith in Sherlock. He had been broken more than once. Sherlock lacked the skills to put all those pieces back together again. This time it was much harder than the walking stick. This was not just psychosomatic. This was a shattered heart. Once by Sherlock himself, and then Mary - at Sherlock’s hand, or so John had felt. It was going to take a lot more than just moving back in to Baker Street before John would feel anything like that for Sherlock again. And this was where he lacked skill. How to help John and to repair things.

On the other hand, when he moved back in - with Rosie - things were different, yes. But as she had grown, her giggles and her smiles seemed to be piecing them both back together. Unexpectedly. They had to work as a team to keep John’s little bee alive. Maybe she was the answer. But maybe that was why this case was hitting him so much harder. It was like seeing the very personification of his hope, die in front of him. This little girl looked so much like Rosie it hurt. And he couldn’t imagine a world without Rosie now. Or without John. Well, he had never been able to imagine that, of course, but now Rosie was entangled in that hope, that dream. She had invaded his heart.

And now he was making it worse by pushing John further away, excluding him from the case. And avoiding Rosie too. He knew he needed to tell John, eventually, but he just wanted to try it, without him first. If he could solve this quickly, he wouldn’t need to hurt John with it as well. John didn’t need the image of that girl in his head. That feeling in his heart. He only ever wanted John to have good feelings in his heart from now on. Whether that included Sherlock or not.

As he focussed back in on the microscope, at the flecks of dirt off the girl's shoe, John came storming in to the lab. Sherlock didn’t even look up from the microscope. He couldn’t bring himself to look at John but he recognised the sound of his angry footsteps anywhere.

"How long Sherlock?”

“John.” He said it calmly, but swallowed hard, hoping John didn’t notice. He tried not to let a blush creep up on his cheeks - he felt as if he had been caught in the act of thinking about John and the question confused him momentarily. Luckily for him John had never really been able to read his mind very well, so he supposed he was wrong, but for a brief moment he didn’t know what John was asking.

“How long were you going to hide it from me, Sherlock?”

John was mad. _Really mad_. Sherlock looked up at John blankly, innocently, but they had known each other long enough. John knew he was asking for more information.

“Molly called me,” he finally said. His voice a low growl.

“She…” he started, sitting up straighter, a little indignant as if he would argue that Molly didn’t know anything but suddenly looked very confused. “Oh.” He stopped for a moment. “ _OH._ ”

“What did you _think_ I meant?” John stopped in his place just as confused. And annoyed. Sherlock really had a way of throwing the pace of a conversation off kilter.

“Oh, nothing. _Nothing,_ ” Sherlock answered in a flurry, looking back into the microscope.

“Sherlock,” John demanded.

“Yes, John.” 

“The case.”  
  
“Yes.” Sherlock was not going to give anything away.

“ _Sherlock._ ” John shuffled his feet, moving his weight, annoyed. “You know we’ve been through some horrific things in our time and I have been there by your side through _all_ of it.”

Sherlock finally looked up and opened his mouth to say something. To argue.

“No.” He pointed at Sherlock. “Don’t argue with me. I think we can _both_ agree that my wife _dying_ was a valid excuse to disappear for a while. Just like your faked your death was. Yes, okay, we’ve had our moments. Sure. But we have been by each other’s side the rest of the time.”

“Okay…” Sherlock waited for clarity.

John clicked his tongue in annoyance. Sherlock could be irritatingly stupid at the most critical times. “And as such… we share the cases.”

“John…”

“ _WE SHARE THE CASES!_ ” He roared suddenly, making Sherlock flinch. It was very rare that either of them yelled at each other like that. Only a few times ever in their history had they taken their temper out on each other. They were more often in sync with each other and didn’t need to say much at all. John was angrier than he realised.

Sherlock sat still.

“Now, I’m going down to the morgue. And Molly is going to show me the body so I can work with you on this,” John said, calming considerably.

“That’s not a good idea,” Sherlock announced, taking another risk.

“No. You don’t get a say, Sherlock,” John said, pointing at him angrily again. “You made a decision already and it was the _wrong_ one. You don’t get to say now.”

“John…” Sherlock pleaded. Surely he could talk to him rationally? Convince him not to be a part of this.

“Just _leave_ it,” John said, standing still, his hands clenching and unclenching with unused adrenaline.

“Well I’m coming down with you, then,” Sherlock placated.

“Fine,” John agreed stubbornly.

* * *

Molly looked nervously between John and Sherlock who were standing in her morgue, the tension between them clear. She was really going to get it from Sherlock for calling John.

“John, are you sure?” Molly checked, looking over to Sherlock for some sort of permission, but Sherlock stood very still. Statuesque. It was unnerving when he did that.

“Molly!” John let out in frustration, his voice echoing around the morgue. "I think all _three_ of us are intelligent enough to know that’s _not_ Rosie on the slab. Rosie is at home, safely in bed. There is no earthly reason to transfer our feelings onto this poor soul. I’m a _doctor_ for god’s sake.”

“You’re right. Sorry. You’re right John,” Molly nodded moving to the table.

Without a word John and Sherlock walked closer too and stood to attention. Waiting. The sense of ceremony Molly felt earlier somehow lost with John being so stiff and Sherlock looking worn now, almost swaying on his feet. _He probably hasn’t eaten for hours_ , Molly thought to herself. John was in no emotional state to notice, the way he usually would.

Molly slowly moved the zip down the bag.

"I mean,” John began, looking to Sherlock for a moment, who refused to make any eye contact, “how similar can she really…” John froze as the bag opened and he saw her for the first time. Sherlock finally turned his head to gauge John’s reaction.

The look that crossed John’s face, imperceptible to most eyes. A tiny shift in muscles that Sherlock recognised because he knew John’s face and expressions so well. He’d loved every one of John’s expressions. He could see the fear, the grief, the confusion. It was all written there in those seconds. The look of something breaking inside him. Sherlock understood that feeling. It was the same feeling he got when he jumped into the skip and saw her too. That feeling that your universe had shifted on its axis. _Not Rosie_ … and yet…

And while intellectually they both _knew_ that it wasn’t Rosie, something in their brains was unable to process what they were seeing. Sherlock knew it was a normal human reaction around death - facing the reality of your own mortality. He had seen it at play a million times with clients. He even saw it on John’s face at the cemetery when he…

_Put that thought aside_ , he reminded himself.

The victim could have looked like anyone, and that feeling could still be a surprise. _That_ feeling. But when the victim looked like your own child.

_Not your own child_ , Sherlock reminded himself as he shook his head again.

When it looked like someone you _knew_ , it was a far harder emotion to reconcile with. It could break you. It could _really_ break you. John didn’t say a word. But he turned his head to look at Sherlock. He looked lost. Like a young child who didn’t know what to do next. Their eyes met. Sherlock tried to convey some meaning to John in that moment. But John still looked so lost.

“ _That’s_ why John,” he said. “Molly, we’re going to need another minute. If you don't mind.”

“Of course Sherlock. It’s not going anywhere,” Molly gave an awkward short laugh. She was always bad at judging the timing of her morbid jokes. _Morgue humour_. But she quietly stepped away, giving them space, swallowing her awkward smile between her pursed lips.

“John…” Sherlock tried, but John looked back at the girl on the slab.

“I want a DNA test. Just to be sure,” he said loudly enough for Molly to hear, his eyes staying on the body.

Sherlock went to reach for John’s arm. “John…”

“Don’t,” he said firmly. Coldly. Sherlock dropped his hand.

Without another word, John walked out of the morgue.

Sherlock stood silently for a moment, registering all the emotions flying around inside him. He often wondered if people realised how much was zinging around in his head. He kept such a cold façade, but he wondered if they knew. John had called him a machine once. It had made him realise, that perhaps they didn’t see, they didn't understand. The façade didn't always match what was in his heart.

Molly slowly walked back over towards Sherlock, uncertain how to approach.

Sherlock caught the movement, and glared at her.

“Sherlock…”

Sherlock slowly looked away from her for a moment. “You could handle keeping my fake death from John for two years but you couldn’t keep this quiet for a day or two?” he accused.

“You’re not yourself Sherlock. You need him,” she simply said. She had expected him to be angrier.

Sherlock let out of a huff of air and closed his eyes. “I know.”

* * *

The autopsy was gruelling. The unspoken words pulled taut across the silence. Sherlock listened but said nothing as Molly worked her way through each task meticulously. It had been a while since he had stood through a full autopsy like this. It was particularly awful given the victim. As she worked, images kept flying around Sherlock’s head - no matter how much he tried to quiet them - of Rosie and all the little moments they had shared together.

_The time she fell and her nose started bleeding and she had run straight to Sherlock for help to stop the bleeding and quiet her tears. He had talked her through the science of what was happening to her and she had fallen asleep on his lap against his chest, her breathing steady and her little plump lips pursed in the cutest “ooo” shape he had every seen…_

_Or the time she had made Sherlock carry her on his shoulders the entire time they shopped for groceries and Sherlock let her reach up for the tins on the top shelf, teasing John about how he couldn’t reach them…_

He let out a little huffed laugh at the memory, and Molly glanced up from her work for a moment, seeing that Sherlock was deep in thought. He wondered if she suspected what he was thinking about.

_He remembered the first day John had moved in to Baker Street tentatively, Rosie in his arms, his voice shaky and his hands trembling a little…_ _Sherlock had never dared hope he would ever see John back there day to day and it took all of his energy that day not to bounce around the flat in excitement, but to measure his reactions to match the sombre mood John was bearing…_

He imagined it must be strange and unusual for John. He had probably been feeling guilt about letting go of Mary’s home, maybe some fear about bringing a baby into his very un-baby-proofed home.

_But by the next day, John’s mood had lifted. And Sherlock had become useful - being a night owl meant he could help with Rosie in the small hours of the night, so John could sleep. He settled her with his violin playing and by reading her Shakespeare or Gray’s Anatomy…_

In his whole life he had never wanted children. Had never thought about them except to find them a little tiresome when he travelled, or when they were distracting a client who needed to share information. But Rosie had changed him. Much more than he wanted to admit.

His thoughts were finally interrupted hours later by Molly letting out a giant sigh and removing her goggles to look at him. _Had he really been standing there that long in his mind palace?_

“So, death by head trauma then?” Sherlock finally asked, snapping back to reality.

“Seems so, yeah.” Molly said quietly.

“Not at the site she was found though? Not from the skip?”

“No, definitely elsewhere. The head wound is an unusual shape. Could be blunt force trauma or a fall. And then moved and dumped. The bleeding had already clotted by then, based on the times Lestrade sent through.”

“No. Not dumped. _Placed_. Carefully. _Hidden_ with guilt _._ By someone who loved her. An inexperienced parent, perhaps? Young. A father or step-father. Not a mother. A mother would try to rescue her - would fight to the death for a little girl like that. This child’s mother loved her. Look at her clothes. Carefully coordinated. Well dressed. Her hair done nicely with the little… bees on the headband.” His voice cracked. 

Molly watched him closely. He was not able to separate this girl with Rosie still. She knew he called Rosie his “little Bee”. She knew this was killing him to see this little girl, laid bare, pulled apart and reduced to organ weights and wound measurements.

Before she could speak Sherlock’s phone rang loudly in his pocket.

“Lestrade,” he said briskly, clearing his throat.

“Found something. I’m sending someone over to Bart’s with it now for you. There was a jacket and a scarf in one of the other skips, buried under the bags. Looks like the right size for our vic. Lots of blood mixed with some sort of tree bark or something.”

“Anyone reported her missing yet?”

“No. Not yet. Strange isn’t it? A nice little girl like that? Someone must be missing her.”

“Molly’s putting a DNA test through. Can you put a rush on it?”

“Sure. I’ll do my best.”

Sherlock hung up the phone.

“I’ll be up in the lab. He’s sending some evidence around.”

Molly nodded quietly. “I’ll send you through the report when I’m done.”

“Molly?” he asked.

“Mmmm?” she replied absently as she put her goggles back on.

“Thanks,” he said.

She smiled to herself as he walked out of the lab.


	6. A miscommunication

Sherlock had managed to stay away from the flat for hours. He had completely lost track of time. He was surprised when he walked out of Bart’s and there was still daylight, only to realise that he had probably been there for twenty-four hours or more. When he focussed hard and didn’t eat, the days sort of blurred together. He looked at his watch. It was actually late afternoon already. Almost forty hours since he had last been home, in fact.

Lestrade had come through; the evidence he had sent over had been very useful. A garbage bag found in the other skip contained a small pink jacket, covered in blood; a rainbow scarf, also covered in blood; and a large collection of what appeared to be landscaping bark of some kind, also clumped together with dried blood. All matching the little girl. It hadn’t taken Sherlock long to pinpoint the probability of what had happened. He didn’t understand _why_ yet, but it seemed the girl had suffered a head trauma at a playground - accidental or deliberate, was yet to be determined. The jacket and scarf were probably used to stop the bleeding - fibres matching the scarf were found in the head wound. Someone had tried to help her and failed. Probably an attempt to clean the scene of any blood and collect up the ground covering as well to hide it. Not smart to place it in a nearby skip, so close to the body. Sherlock always marveled at how stupid some people were when in the throes of crime. Maybe the person responsible knew, or at least hoped, it was skip collection day and all of it would be moved elsewhere. The bark didn’t match the park closest to the skip location, so the little girl had also been moved. That showed some intent to cover it up. He had given Lestrade all his findings. They were yet to locate the other shoe, or the exact location, although Sherlock had narrowed it down to a handful of possible Buroughs, based on some of the dirt found on the jacket. The bark was too generic - used in all of the latest playground upgrades, which didn’t help them narrow it down. There had been a spate of community upgrades it seemed.

He was frustrated. And he had run out of ideas, and out of evidence to scour through. So he had resigned himself to heading back to Baker Street. He could use a shower and another of his books that might be helpful, before heading back to Bart’s later in the evening. He was determined to narrow down the location.

Still no word from the parents. No missing children reported. This only made him angrier, as he stepped out on to the street and hailed the first cab he could see to take him home. How could anyone with a little girl like that _not_ notice them missing? Sherlock could not contain the outrage inside him over that. John would never be that careless, nor would he himself for that matter. Rosie was their whole world now. Or Rosie and John were certainly _Sherlock’s_ whole world, at least. He wasn’t really sure what John thought about it. Particularly after today.

At some point he was going to have to face John as well. They had not spoken since John had walked out of the morgue. The DNA results were not back yet, and other than a quick text from John asking if he would be home for dinner - which he did not answer - they had not communicated. Normally, he would talk everything through with John. In the old days, John would follow Sherlock around, all hours of the night and day, listening to all his ramblings helping him find his way, occasionally demanding they stop for food. Sherlock would never admit it, but he was grateful for the respite along the way, sometimes having a cup of tea as John ate. He missed the pace of those days, but they were both getting older now, and it was getting harder to sustain.

Certainly, since John had moved back home, Sherlock had found himself not taking on as many unusual or dangerous cases as he would have done before. Sometimes he would leave it to Scotland Yard, or allow Lestrade more ownership and only consult from the flat on small matters. He didn’t mind it in fact. Of course he would never admit that Rosie had anything to do with it, but he had grown comfortable in their new ways. Married life and fatherhood had already slowed John down. He supposed for John, even the little things they were doing would seem exciting these days. He wanted John to feel at home. He didn’t want John to feel any regret or guilt for moving back in. It was a delicate balance and he thought it had been working well. Until this case.

The thing Sherlock _did_ enjoy most about their renewed living arrangement, was coming home to John. Occasionally he would go out on a case without him but come home to sit with him at night and discuss it over dinner, or breakfast, depending on the time he got back. It had given him a moment’s pause. It was the first time he had really taken the time to think about why people might take on a partner and want a life like that. Oh, he knew John didn’t see _them_ that way - never had, never would. But he knew John was always loyal and would follow Sherlock just about anywhere without question. In reality, though, they were more a couple _now_ , unintentionally, than they had ever been – just the two of them with Rosie. He noticed people looking at them in the street when they walked together and saw the looks, the assumptions. And that was alright with Sherlock. If this was the closest he would get, it was enough. He didn’t need to ask John. It just _was_ what it was: the two of them, at Baker Street, with Rosie. Working and living together. He didn't know how long it would last before John felt the need to move on. But he would take it for now.

He really wanted to go home and share all of this case with John too. He knew he _should_ tell John everything. But something was stopping him. He didn’t want to admit to John how much Rosie meant to him now. What if it scared John away? What if John thought it was weird, or too much? No, better for him to keep that to himself and just soldier through this case. Once it was done, they could return to their normal routine. Better to keep John as far from it as possible and just get it done. He was good at closing people off, leaving them out. He was known for that. He had promised he wouldn’t do that with John, after everything, now that he was back. But how could he talk about this little girl with John, without it upsetting them both? Without it bringing up talk of their little girl. _John’s little girl_ , he reminded himself. He couldn’t bear it if John asked to leave. He had seen the look on John’s face at the lab. John was not going to be able to deal with this case. He could see Rosie in this little girl too. No, it was better if he dealt with this one alone, as he had planned from the beginning. Curse Molly for bringing John into it.

As he entered the flat, John was playing with Rosie on the floor, laughing. He felt relief that John’s mood seemed improved, but before he could greet them, the nerves kicked in. He was actually… _nervous_ to face John after what had happened earlier. John never used to make him nervous. But things had become so uncertain between them, almost painfully polite.

“Tehrok!” Rosie called, pointing at him over John’s shoulder. John turned slightly to look at Sherlock, hopeful. His eyebrows raised with expectation; Sherlock was home and might finally talk to him.

Sherlock turned on his heel, no change to his facial expression and went straight to the bathroom, closing the door firmly. He put his head in his hands, disappointed in himself, but it was too late now. The affront was clear, and John bristled for a moment, keeping his eyes on the bathroom door.

“Tehrok…?” Rosie began, some little tears building in her eyes.

“It’s okay Bub, he has had a very long night. Why don’t we go to the park and play outside?” he tried to say as cheerily as possible, his heart feeling the disappointment. “Why don’t you go and find your shoes and your bunny and Daddy will clean up here first? Then we’ll go? I’ll be up in a minute to help.”

She stood up and wobbled her way to the stairs excitedly, her face brightening suddenly, to be allowed to find her way up to the bedroom. She was becoming so much more independent. If he so much as tried to do things for her she would get angry. He suspected she was learning that from Sherlock actually, and he smiled and shook his head to himself. Sherlock was actually very good with her and it had been such a lovely surprise to find that living with him and a small child, was actually a lot of fun. Rosie loved him so much.

John had been anxious coming back to Baker Street, with a child. Would Sherlock accept her? Mary’s child? The child from his marriage? So much complexity was wrapped up in the last couple of years – Sherlock’s return, John’s marriage, Mary’s past, then the baby, then Mary’s death. John had treated Sherlock so badly after her unexpected death and it was going to take a lot to prove he was a worthy friend again. He had admitted _some_ but not _all_ of his failings – especially not the most important one either – Mary was never Sherlock.

John cleaned up the toys angrily, his temper beginning to flare. He heard the shower water finish and he stormed over to the door of the bathroom, knocking on it more confidently than he felt, his anger getting the better of him.

“Sherlock. You alright?” he wanted to have it out, to challenge him.

“Yes, why?” Sherlock replied. He sounded a bit nervous, if that was possible. It gave John a moment’s pause.

“Sherlock…” John waited.

Sherlock opened the door a crack, a towel wrapped around his waist, the steam from the shower billowing out into the corridor, water dripping from his curls onto his shoulders. Despite having lived together for quite a decent amount of time, it still caught him off guard when Sherlock’s naked torso greeted him. It shouldn’t. Sherlock had often walked out in just a bedsheet - and not just when visiting the palace. John found himself swallowing hard for a moment, his thoughts completely disappeared from his head.

“Honestly John, I’m fine,” Sherlock said with irritating nonchalance.

"We’re not going to talk about it?” John demanded.

“I have to get back to Bart’s. I just came home for a book and a shower. Still working on it.”

“You don’t… well you don’t want me to…”

“No. It’s fine. I’ve got this. You just…”

“Tehhhrok” Rosie’s voice interrupted from the corridor and John’s eyes snapped over to her, surprised. She was getting so fast. Rosie was standing with her bunny and one shoe in her hand, but before he could look back to Sherlock, the bathroom door was shut again.

“Tehrok come?” Rosie asked, hopeful.

“No, not today love,” John said, his voice laced with disappointment, as her face began to drop, and her lip quivered ominously. John snapped to it quickly. “It looks like you’re missing a shoe though,” he said to her, his voice brightening again. “Let’s go and sort that out.”

He walked away, guiding Rosie down the corridor, but glancing back at the bathroom door. _Had the door closed on them? On working together? Maybe he had overstayed his welcome? Maybe the time apart had broken them? Maybe it was all too late?_


	7. A Break

“Well Rosie, here we are. What shall we do first?” John asked his excited daughter who was jumping up and down on the spot on the grass, waiting to be allowed to go onto the playground area.

“Siings!” she cried out.

“Oh, the swing? Are you sure? Last time you got a bit scared,” John said to her.

“Sing sing siiiing!” she cried.

“Swing,” he corrected her gently, although he loved her little mistakes. He felt bad correcting her, but he knew it was also his parental duty to make sure she didn’t end up saying things incorrectly into adulthood. He shook his head at himself.

 _God John, sometimes you’re too serious for your own good,_ he chastised internally.

Rosie let go of his hand and started tottering towards the swing.

“Careful sweetie,” he called out, following her at a light jog.

The temperature was dropping fast, as clouds gathered above, blocking the sun, and a gloom was settling in. It had seemed like nice weather only a short while ago. Luckily he had packed an extra jacket for Rosie. The park was quiet; it was already late afternoon. Most families had probably gone home in preparation for dinner. John wouldn’t normally fuss with a trip to the park this close to dinner either, but after that interaction with Sherlock at the flat - whatever that was – he felt he needed to do something for Rosie and get them both out of there for a bit. He couldn’t understand what was happening with Sherlock lately, honestly. There was a coldness there – particularly towards Rosie this week - he had not seen before. He had just been thinking how wonderful everything had been going. How wonderful it had been to have Sherlock so close, to help him raise Rosie. And Sherlock had embraced the challenge with a scientific verve and fascination. The number of hilarious moments they had shared together parenting Rosie in just the last year had been staggering. And when he thought about it properly, Sherlock _had_ also parented her. John couldn’t have done it without him, in fact. Those early months after he moved in, as they found their way in particular made for some quality blogs - once you shared in the perils of explosive poo and baby vomit in your open mouth, you had earned serious parenting stripes. He laughed to himself and shook his head as an image slipped by of a particularly gross day where Sherlock had in fact ended up in the shower with Rosie - the quickest way to conquer that event - while John cried laughing outside the bathroom door, waiting with towels. John’s face dropped as he realised the last time they had smiled and laughed like that was the morning of the call, from Lestrade. This case had really changed Sherlock this week. Suddenly everything had irritated him – especially Rosie. It was clear he was avoiding them both.

“Daddy siiiing,” Rosie called out as she stood beside it, her Bunny dangling in her hand, its head resting against the ground.

 _That is going to get filthy out here. Great,_ he thought to himself.

She couldn’t get herself on the swings yet, without help. John snapped back to reality.

“Coming Bee! I’m just putting the bag down. Hang on.” He placed it on a bench, grabbing out her extra jacket to put on her and walked over to the swings. As he walked, something on the ground caught his eye and he frowned in thought without really registering what it was as he brought his focus back over to Rosie.

“Here little Bee, let Daddy put this on first,” he said to her.  
“No!” she said defiantly.

“ _Bee_ ,” he gave her a stern look. “It’s starting to get cold. Let’s put the jacket on, and _then_ I’ll swing you.”

“No, Daddy, No!”

My word she was stubborn! _Just like her mother_ , he thought to himself. Although he suspected actually, she had learned more of it from Sherlock in recent times actually. John was going to have to prepare himself for living with both of them in full flight. The mere thought was terrifying.

“Alright then, I’ll just put it here beside the swings, but after this, you need to put it on okay?” he said, keeping the peace. Rosie jumped up and down with excitement and he lifted her into the swing, clipping her in place with the safety belt and she leaned back towards him, her little shoes lifting slightly in front of his line of sight. _Shoes_ … suddenly it clicked. A shoe. He glanced over at the side of the playground. It was a shoe. A lone shoe, lying on its side on the ground. He frowned in thought again. A nice sneaker, with pink on it. A girl’s sneaker. Would someone leave a nice sneaker like that behind. Certainly he had seen plenty of lost property at playgrounds, but never nice sneakers like that. _God, I’m sounding like Sherlock now,_ he thought to himself. _You’re overthinking things John, shut up._

“Pussss pussss,” Rosie cried, distracting him.

“Yes, sorry sorry,” he sighed, starting to push her and she squealed with delight.

“Daddy…”

“Not too high. I know,” he said. She got scared when it was too high.

As he pushed her he kept an eye on the shoe. _Not like it’s going anywhere_ , he reassured himself.

 _Shoes can’t walk on their own, John,_ he heard Sherlock’s voice in his head.

That usually happened when he had a particularly stupid thought and Sherlock wasn’t there to chastise him for it. He let out a huff of air in frustration at himself. He could give Rosie five minutes on the swing first. Even though the clouds were starting to look a bit menacing and the light was dropping rapidly already. After he’d given her long enough, he slowed his pushes down, his heart rate starting to increase at the thought that maybe there was something exciting he could contribute to the case.

 _Great John, you’re getting excited. Over a shoe. In a children’s playground. It’s probably nothing. How many lost shoes are left in playgrounds anyway? Plus, you’ve clearly lost it. You’re talking to yourself again. Your judgement is hardly sound._ He had caught himself doing this more and more when it was just him and Rosie. Since she couldn’t hold much intelligent conversation with him yet. It was a worry.

“Ooookay, my love. Enough swing. How about you take Bunny on the slide for a bit. Daddy’s just going to look at something,” he enticed her.

“Siiiiide!” she cried. John was impressed and thankful she didn’t cry about stopping the swing.

“Wait. Jacket first. You _promised_ ,” he gave her his most loving but stern parent face.

She let out a dramatic sigh – also learned from Sherlock he was sure - and nodded.

“Good girl.” And he put it on her carefully, zipping it up. He gave her a kiss on her nose and then she and Bunny were off, running to the slides.

“Only the baby one!” John yelled after her. She did have a daredevil streak of confidence in her but she wouldn’t manage the tall slide on her own. Once he was sure she was doing the right thing, he walked over to the side of the playground where he had seen the shoe. All the playgrounds in the area had recently been refurbished, with a dark brown floor covering that was some sort of landscaping bark, small enough to not injure a child if they fell, creating a semi-soft covering on the ground. But large enough to flick up and end up in your shoes, he cursed to himself as a piece lodged itself between the inside of his shoe and his sock and dug into the side of his ankle. He stopped to fish it out before walking closer. Yes, just as he thought. He _had_ seen that shoe already. He was sure of it. In the morgue. Obviously more than one child in London would have the same shoes, but Molly had given him a very quick update text earlier, which included the fact that they were missing one of the victim’s shoes.

He quickly fired off a text to Molly. Not Sherlock. He didn’t want to cause any more friction than there already was, until necessary. In a matter of seconds she sent the picture he was after. The victim’s shoe. It was a match. His heart raced a bit more with the excitement.

_Not yet, John. Stay calm. Could be nothing._

“Hey little Bee.” John called over to Rosie. She stopped at the top of the slide. “Do you and Bunny want to help Daddy with some detective work?”

“Yesssss!” she called excitedly, sliding down and coming towards him.

Sherlock always liked to play detective with her at home, and he had given her Bunny for her first birthday. Mrs Hudson had made Bunny and Rosie little deerstalkers to match Sherlock’s. They had eventually added a magnifying glass to the ensemble - Sherlock found a small one he didn’t use, and Mrs Hudson had stitched a wrist attachment to Bunny’s arm to hold it in place. Sherlock would wear his hat too as they solved crimes together: Detective Bunny, Detective Bee and Sherlock fighting crime around the flat. It was pretty adorable actually. They hadn’t done that for a few weeks. But now, that magnifying glass was going to be useful.

“Can Daddy borrow Bunny for a minute?” he asked.  
  


“No,” she said stubbornly, hugging Bunny closer. He was really _loving_ this “no” phase she was going through. He took a breath, to refocus.

  
“Detective Bunny, I _need_ your help to look with your magnifying glass,” John addressed the Bunny. Rosie giggled. She loved it when they spoke to her toys properly.

She put Bunny’s face to her ear and listened, and then nodded. “Bunny says okay.”

John smiled and held out his arm and she passed Bunny over.

He bent over the shoe closer. Just as he thought, yes, he was pretty sure that was dried blood on the side of the shoe. The shoe that matched the little girl in the morgue. Around the edging of the playground, to keep the bark in, was a row of large rocks. The light was starting to fade, so he fished his phone out and turned the torch on, passing it to Rosie. “Hold this for Daddy please Detective Bee?” he asked sweetly and she giggled with delight and nodded, grabbing his phone.

“Hold it steady,” he coached her, as he held Bunny and guided the magnifying glass on the rocks. And yes, that actually could be a tiny bit of blood on the rock. Maybe he wasn’t crazy.

“Okay Detective Bee and Bunny, thank you for your help,” he said in his official doctor voice before reverting back to parent mode. “Give Daddy the phone now. Why don’t you head back to the slide for a bit? Daddy will come over in a minute,” he said calmly. Without question she grabbed Bunny and ran back to the playground.

As he turned off the torch, and put the phone to his ear, he felt a couple of spits of rain

“Great,” he said to himself as he tried to pull his jacket off with the phone still held to his ear by one shoulder. The phone slipped out and hit the ground as he heard Greg answer.

“Shit,” he whispered to himself, pulling the jacket the rest of the way off first and carefully laying it over the shoe and the rock - which were luckily close to each other - to protect them from the rain.

“Rosie, you stay over there in the shelter for a minute,” John called to her as he bent down and grabbed the phone. She cuddled Bunny to her and sat in the little sheltered cubby at the top of the slide.

“Sorry Greg, it’s John,” he finally said.

“John! What can I do for you?” Greg sounded pleasantly surprised.

“I think you’re going to want a team down here. I’m at the park. You know the one near Baker Street I take Rosie to?” he said as calmly as possible, even though his heart was racing with the coming excitement.

“Yes,” Greg sounded dubious. “I’m at work John.”

“Yes, I assumed,” John said annoyed. “I think I might have found your scene. Assuming you haven’t yet.”

“You mean the crime scene? How?” Greg sat up straighter and John heard him issue a shout out to Donovan to get in his office.

“The missing shoe is _here_. I think. Looks like there’s some blood.”

“What, are you serious?” Greg checked.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Is Sherlock there?”

“Ahhh, no. No, we came down without him. I haven’t… I haven’t called him yet he’s been a bit… off this week. I didn’t want to. It’s silly I know.”

“I know exactly what you mean. He has been a bit out of sorts. Can you stay with it, until the team get there?”

“Yes, yes. We’re here. I’ve just covered it from the rain that’s starting up.”

“Shit,” Greg said under his breath. “I’ll have a unit there in ten minutes.”

* * *

Sherlock was furious with himself as he ran down to the park after Greg’s call. _Why hadn’t he at least looked at his local park? This had happened right here? Right near their own house? Where Rosie plays nearly every day?_ It just enraged him further. And he had tried to keep John and Rosie out of it and now here they were, right in the centre of it, finding the missing clue. He couldn’t get his anger about it all under control. As he approached the park, he could already see John standing there with Rosie on his hip, her head resting on his chest. The flashing lights of the police cars dancing across their faces. It reminded him of the very first case they had shared. When he had looked across and seen John standing there innocently – well not so innocently as it happened - and realised how important this army doctor would be to him. _Why hadn’t John called him? Had he pushed him away so much that John wouldn’t even talk to him now?_

Even from a distance, he could see John was shivering. He wasn’t wearing his jacket. Just one of his indoor jumpers. _Where is his jacket? Rosie’s at least rugged up,_ he thought to himself. John was bouncing her a bit, to keep her settled, and probably to stay warm, as he chatted to Greg.

It hadn’t taken long for chaos to take over the quiet park. Several police cars. Lots of police in rain jackets. Police tape everywhere. The crime scene photographer already in action too.

“What are the odds of this, eh?” Greg said too cheerily as Sherlock approached.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He didn’t know what to say to that.

“Tehrok!” Rosie took her head off John’s chest to call out to him, reaching towards him with her toy in hand. “Bunny!” she said.

He couldn’t help smiling at that, but the smile wasn’t his usual big smile. It was tired, and forced, and it made John’s heart sink a bit to see that. He really was struggling with seeing them. Before Rosie could make more fuss, John explained in his overly cheery daddy voice: “Detective Bunny helped us, didn’t he?” and she nodded. There was a beat of silence.

“That was good wasn’t it?” Greg responded to her, realising Sherlock wasn’t going to speak.

Rosie put her head back down and John felt a flare of anger at Sherlock for being so rude.

Lestrade nodded in the direction of the scene – as if Sherlock needed it pointed out to him – and Sherlock pulled his hands out of his pockets to grab at the rubber glove dispenser Lestrade was holding. As he put them on silently, he looked up at John, his face grave. He hoped that John understood what he was saying: _This happened on our turf. Where Rosie plays._ But he could see from John’s face he was thinking something else altogether: _You left us out of this and now I’ve cleaned up your mess._ At least, he was pretty sure that’s what John was thinking.

John broke the eye contact – he never broke eye contact - to place a kiss on Rosie’s head and looked back over towards the scene.

Sherlock walked away from them to have a look at the scene – to check that it was the matching shoe, and there was in fact blood. He had complete faith in John, but he needed to be _seen_ to check it, if nothing else. And a part of him still hoped it wasn’t true. It only took him thirty seconds. Donovan bagged the shoe for him and handed him John’s jacket, and he stood for a moment taking in the playground. A place he had spent so much time with Rosie. Would he ever be able to bring her back here again?

He slowly walked back to John and held the jacket out to him, hoping it would be a peace offering.

“You coming back home with us?” John asked, not taking it.

“Ah no, best take this shoe off to the lab. No time to waste,” he replied, looking at the ground awkwardly.

John nodded with pursed lips and let out a loud sigh. Sherlock couldn’t even _look_ at them. “Well I have to get Rosie home for dinner and bed. She’s very tired. No need to thank me,” he said as he grabbed the jacket roughly out of Sherlock’s hand and turned on his heel to head home.


	8. A Problem

Sherlock sat working at his desk, computer open, papers everywhere. They had not spoken since Sherlock had come home last night, and this morning there was a definite tension between them. John had opted not to say much for the most part, leaving Sherlock to concentrate on the work, and not wanting to bring up the tension from the park. John only heard him come in at about 3am, but he had retreated to his bedroom and closed the door. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t be sleeping, but he suspected Sherlock was avoiding seeing either of them again. He had waited conveniently until Rosie was down for her morning nap again before he had come out to work at the desk, without a word. John sat on the couch, flicking through the newspaper silently until he finally decided to test the waters.

“I was thinking we might go somewhere this afternoon – might take Rosie out for a walk at the lake? If you wanted to come? You know how she loves it there,” he offered awkwardly to fill the silence, and try to repair some sense of conversation between them.

“Mmm-hmmm,” was all Sherlock said in response. John knew that meant he had heard but was deliberately not committing to anything.

He glared at Sherlock, wishing he could deduce him the way Sherlock deduced others so well. If only he could understand what went on in that brilliant mind. Sometimes, John was confident that he understood Sherlock perfectly. Only some of the time. At crime scenes they used to be so in sync with each other, finishing each other’s sentences or communicating with just a look. He loved that feeling, when they worked together as a team like that. He had missed it so much. There was something magical that happened when you lived with someone long enough, that you knew their noises and reactions and could anticipate them. When he lived with Mary, things with Sherlock became more awkward. He had lost touch with some of those instincts in Sherlock’s absence. He craved that again. Some days it had been like that again, since he had moved back in. But other days it was like he didn’t know Sherlock at all, like they had grown apart. John had lost some of his confidence. The guilt of his own actions weighed heavily on him, and the guilt of having a toddler in the house was always just lingering there at the back of his mind. He turned to the real estate section deliberately. _Maybe it was time to look for a new flat and leave Sherlock alone?_

“Oh actually, the surgery called last night. They need an extra doctor to fill in tomorrow. Could you watch Rosie for a bit?” he asked apologetically, without making eye contact, letting his eyes scroll over the classified listings.

“You know I can’t. Not while this is going on,” Sherlock said, his voice sounding polite but edging towards slightly inconvenienced.

“You said it was a _two_ ,” John reminded him, finally looking up.

Sherlock sighed, “It is. It _is_ a two, but they need me. They haven’t caught anyone yet I…” Sherlock still didn’t look at him.

“Sorry of course. I’ll go down and ask Mrs. H. I could go now, while Rosie is down… if you don’t mind keeping an ear out?” John hated how polite they were both being around each other.

Sherlock glanced at the clock, nervously. Even John couldn’t miss that. Sherlock was calculating the time and the likelihood of Rosie waking, he was sure of it.

“If you’re quick,” he said, still not looking up.

The affront was clear. He didn’t want to take responsibility for her. John stood for a moment weighing that up. Sherlock had never been so cold about Rosie. John’s cheeks flushed in embarrassment. Sherlock had always been a little intimidating, even at the height of their friendship, but John felt crippled with the inconvenience he was obviously causing. It was only natural that Sherlock would be tiring of them. He probably felt obligated to let them stay, and now they had become a burden. He knew he shouldn’t be relying so heavily on Sherlock. Rosie was not Sherlock’s responsibility. But he had just seemed so happy around her lately, and Rosie loved him so much. Well not these last few days, clearly, but even last week. Things had seemed… almost perfect to John. But _of course_ , it shouldn’t be forced on Sherlock. After all they weren’t a family. Not really. John was just a pathetic flat mate who couldn’t afford to pay rent on his own while trying to raise his daughter. He had been so desperate, he hadn’t stopped to really think about whether this was something Sherlock wanted, or would want long term. They had never even discussed it.

“John?” Sherlock interrupted his thoughts. The look on his face was slightly perplexed. He was trying to deduce what John was thinking. “Best get down there before Rosie wakes,” he suggested lightly.

“Yes, sorry. I’ll only be a minute,” John snapped out of it, giving Sherlock an apologetic look.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock responded. But John knew it wasn’t.

As John walked out, Sherlock closed his eyes, embarrassed at his own behaviour. He could already see it was hurting John. But better that John thought the worst of him and kept a safe distance. For many reasons. Firstly, to stay away from the case and the pain of working over this young Rosie-doppelgänger. But probably for the best all round. Sherlock was getting far too attached to Rosie. And he knew it would never be anything more than just a flat share arrangement anyway. He had to come to terms with that. At any moment, John could make the decision that living with a detective was the wrong environment for his daughter - as well he should – and Rosie would be removed from his daily life, just like that. Better to rip the band-aid off and put up his "obnoxious arsehole" front that he was so good at. He rubbed a hand over his face to refocus on the screen and get back to his work. To find a killer.

“Right. That’s sorted.” John said as he walked back into the flat. “She can help tomorrow.” Sherlock felt a stab of guilt but said nothing.

“Shall I make us a cup of tea?” John said brightly, walking to the kitchen, trying to regroup. Maybe it was time to talk to Sherlock about his concerns. Let him know he would start looking for another place.

“No, I’m fine. I have to go out again anyway,” Sherlock replied, starting to shuffle together some papers on the desk.

“Can you wait until Rosie wakes up? She’d love to see you,” John offered.

“It can’t wait. Molly called while you were downstairs. She needs me back at the lab and I…”

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” John turned and stopped in the doorway to the kitchen. _I guess I'm doing this,_ John thought to his impulsive side.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock looked up innocently.

“What’s going on… with you? You’ve been avoiding us since this case started. Is the case really getting to you that much… or… or are you…” John stopped to gauge Sherlock’s reaction, but he was keeping his face passive. “It just feels like you’re… that we’re…” he cleared his throat awkwardly and squared his shoulders, shutting his eyes before trying again. “Are we intruding too much on your space? Because if it’s too much we can… I can find a new flat.” John swallowed at the thought. Sherlock said nothing.

“I wasn’t sure if coming here, moving back in would be too much to ask. I was always hesitant to come back. But you were so determined to offer. To have us. And it’s been so nice, honestly. But I know you may not want… but you’re so good with her Sherlock… more than I ever expected and…”

Sherlock stood up and moved to the window to look out, unable to think of the words. He smiled to himself once his back was turned. He did so love it when John struggled to get words out. But his heart had begun racing too. The last thing he wanted was for them to move out. He couldn’t lose John… or Rosie. In keeping John safely away from the case, or from admitting how much it was affecting him, he had not intended for John to think he wasn’t welcome to stay here, at Baker Street. Not really.

“It’s my fault,” John went on. “I should have put a time limit on it for you. I feel like I’ve imposed too long, overstayed our welcome. _Of course,_ having a young child here would be an annoyance and I’m sorry I was just… comfortable. I got comfortable. I should never have… it’s okay, I’ll start looking for…”

Sherlock suddenly slammed his fist on the wall beside the window in frustration. “NO!” He shouted without thinking.

John stopped short, flinching at the sudden noise. “Sherlock?”

Before Sherlock could say anything, Rosie cried restlessly in the monitor.

“Oh, I’m sorry John, I…” Sherlock, recoiled guiltily.

“It’s fine, I’ll go settle her,” John said, sounding exhausted and a little confused.

“No. Let me go. It was my fault,” Sherlock offered gently and began walking up before John could move.

John was genuinely surprised that he had offered. He paced the floor, to walk off all the tense energy flying around inside him, waiting for Sherlock to return. _What just happened?_ Sherlock was more frustrated, clearly, than even John had anticipated. He listened via the monitor as Sherlock entered the room. Rosie wasn’t really awake, she sniffed and cooed a little bit, confused by the noise that woke her.

Sherlock whispered quietly. John sat in his chair to be close to the monitor and catch the words.

“It’s alright little Bee. It’s alright. No-one will ever hurt you. I would _never_ let them. You’re safe,” he said in his special gentle voice that he used only with Rosie.

John imagined Sherlock was stroking her curls off her forehead like he always did. Rosie loved that. His deep voice was so soothing. John closed his eyes and his heart clenched at the sound of it - Sherlock calming her back to sleep so gently. It was a special soft voice he reserved only for her. She sighed into the monitor and settled. John listened as Sherlock sat heavily into the chair. The chair they would sit in to read to her, or to cuddle her. Sherlock sat quietly for a good couple of minutes, probably waiting to make sure she had properly settled. And then John realised Sherlock was still talking but very softly to himself, so he pulled the monitor up closer to his ear to hear it.

_"It’s just too hard. I don’t know how to do this, little Bee. I don’t know how to…"_ Sherlock whispered quietly to the room, his voice cracking.

John sat with that thought for a moment, wondering what he meant. _Didn’t know how to do what? To look after Rosie? To share this flat with them? To tell them to leave? To solve the case? What was going on with him?_ He had rarely seen Sherlock flustered by anything like he was now. He heard the sounds of Sherlock getting out of the chair and he put the monitor down, quickly grabbing a book and opening it to pretend he had not been listening in.

When Sherlock returned to the room, John could feel his mood had shifted. His footsteps were slow and heavy on the stairs, and he was quieter, resigned to something. He walked slowly across the room and sat in his chair opposite John’s, making eye contact. John tilted his head in question.

“It’s not a two,” he said quietly.

“Sorry?”

“The case. It’s not really a two. But it’s not really that. I… it’s… I can’t…” Sherlock shuffled uncomfortably in the chair, looking down at his hands. “I wanted to protect you from having to… but I can’t think straight. I’m failing at it and I can’t…” 

Before John even had time to register what was happening, what he meant, Sherlock’s phone rang out loudly disturbing them. Sherlock grabbed it from his pocket.

“Lestrade?” he answered urgently, his whole demeanor changing back to detective mode in a flash. It always amazed John how quickly Sherlock could change. Only a moment ago he had seemed so… fragile.

“We’ve got him. Walked in off the street. You should come down.” Sherlock looked at John, eyes wide.

“Let’s go,” John said, standing up. “I’ll stop by Mrs. H on the way down and get her to come up and be here for Rosie.”

Before Sherlock could argue, John was already grabbing their coats. There would be no argument.


	9. A Question

Sherlock and John rushed into the police station together. Already down the corridor they could hear the loud screams and sobs of a woman. From what she was saying Sherlock assumed it was the mother, finally hearing the news.

Lestrade met them at the counter.

“He’s handed himself in,” was all he needed to say.

“The mother?” John asked first.

“Yes, that’s her. We will take her to Bart’s to confirm the identity of the girl. Mother’s been away at her sister’s and returned home this morning to find her girl missing. They’re young Sherlock, you were right.”

Sherlock was stony faced, hands in his coat pockets, listening but not showing any sign of recognition or pleasure at the news. John looked him up and down before returning his attention back to Greg. It was always left to him to be the congenial one, to maintain the peace, ask the questions and listen. But he had missed this. Working as a team.

“He’s admitted to it then?” John asked.

“We’re just about to question him, but yes, he’s admitted enough for us to take him in,” Lestrade confirmed.

“Is he the father?” John asked again.

“Boyfriend. Step-father. The girl was supposedly in his care while the mother was away.”

“Right,” John replied.

“I want to be in the room,” Sherlock said stiffly.

“I shouldn’t really let you,” Lestrade hesitated.

“You called _us_ , Lestrade,” Sherlock let out, before returning to his blank expression.

“Fine. But you’re there to observe. No interfering,” he gave Sherlock a stern look. Sherlock didn’t move or reply.

“Of course,” John answered giving the response for both of them but looking at Sherlock nervously. _Was he going to be able to do that?_

As they followed Lestrade down a corridor, the blinds of the first room were turned just enough to take in the young woman in the room, her back to the window. Donovan was sitting facing them talking to her, the woman sobbing into her hands at a table, a box of tissues between them. The woman was petite with blonde curly hair, just like the little girl.

_Just like Rosie,_ Sherlock thought to himself.

_Just like Mary,_ John thought suddenly, a little stab in his chest at the memory.

Donavan looked up and gave Lestrade a nod and then her brow creased at John and Sherlock being allowed to follow him. She knew what was happening. Then her eyes returned to the lady, and continued talking. Lestrade led them further down the corridor to the next interview room.

As they entered, the young man was sitting at the interview table, his feet tapping nervously on the ground beneath it. A security guard stood just inside the door, keeping watch. Lestrade found his place at the table, and John walked to the corner of the room, to lean against the wall and listen. Sherlock stepped inside and stood behind Lestrade, his figure very imposing, intimidating.

The young boy looked them all over one at a time, his eyes wild with fear. He was young enough to still have pimply skin, John noted, and he felt a little sick that someone so young would be caught up in such a life changing and awful situation. How did someone find themselves at this point in their life? The father in him felt a little ill at the thought. He hoped that his own neglect of Rosie to follow Sherlock around would not have any impacts on _her_ life, or on _his_. _Would he keep risking his life, despite the fact he had a little girl at home to care for and protect? What was it in him that couldn’t resist that temptation?_ But thinking like that was not productive, he knew that, so he focussed back on the room, his eyes wandering over Sherlock cautiously, concerned.

Sherlock was standing very still behind Lestrade. His chin raised slightly in… was it defiance? Or superiority? John couldn’t tell. Sherlock did always get this way when confronting criminals, but this was worse than usual. It was always unnerving when he got like that. But after the last few days, John was genuinely unsure how this would play out. Lestrade had gone against protocol and let them both be in the room during questioning. He hoped to god Lestrade didn’t regret it. John shuffled nervously on his feet, arms crossed, waiting.

Lestrade was sitting opposite this young boy - the only way to describe him. He may have been twenty but possibly a little younger - old enough to know his responsibilities, young enough to make stupid decisions still. His face was drawn, exhausted. His light brown hair a spiky mess. It was clear he was in a state. Whether there were drugs or alcohol at play was yet to be determined, but he was definitely not in a good place, mentally. His clothes were un-ironed and too big for his skinny frame. He looked malnourished.

Sherlock took the boy in. If this was one of the parents, he clearly wasn’t the one responsible for dressing the little girl, just as he had suspected. This boy had absolutely no style or care about his clothes. Sherlock had met hardened killers who used an iron on their shirts at least. Everything about this boy was pathetic. How did that gorgeous little girl end up being the responsibility of this loser? For a moment his own conscience gave him a dig. _You’re a drug dealer who chases after crime for fun. How are you any different? You think Rosie deserves that?_ “Shut up,” he whispered to himself, shaking his head.

Lestrade turned around to look at him. The boy opposite also looking him up and down again. Sherlock could feel John’s eyebrow crooked in question at him, even without looking. He gave Lestrade an apologetic look, which he accepted and turned back to begin the interview with all the usual procedures: introducing them all on tape; stating the time; asking the usual required ‘name, age, address, what’s your relation to the victim’ questions. He had come to make a statement. No lawyer, no circus. He had brought himself in to the station to confess. Guilt getting the better of him when his girlfriend returned home.

Sherlock was slightly irritated that there wasn’t more of an exciting chase on this case. He needed a case that he and John could really stretch their legs on again. Like the good old days. But this case was never going to be _that_. It had crippled him at the knees in record time. He knew John was feeling it as well. Mycroft would have a field day if he knew.

Sherlock reserved a small part of his brain to listen to everything the young boy was answering with Lestrade, talking through what had happened, how it all came about. Sherlock couldn’t stand the matter-of-factness to his tale. The quiet acceptance that something this terrible had just… happened. With no motive. The boy had taken his step-daughter to the park. Genevieve. Ginny, for short. A couple of sleepless nights in a row while the mother was away and he wasn't watching her. She tripped and hit her head and when he found her, there had been too much bleeding. He panicked and tried to cover it up. Hadn't thought beyond moving her body, hiding her. Hadn't considered what to do when the mother returned home and wanted to know where her Ginny was.

Before he could stop himself, Sherlock interrupted.

“Why?... How?” he asked quietly. Simple questions, with so much weight. His voice a little croaky in the asking. John’s head snapped to Sherlock. He hadn’t even lasted ten minutes into the interview before interrupting. John rolled his eyes.

The boy looked Sherlock up and down again, deciding whether he was required to answer this imposing figure.

“I was tired. I just… fell asleep,” the boy said flippantly with a shrug of his shoulders, a little defiantly at Sherlock for asking. John already straightened off the wall, knowing that was not going to be taken well, but not quickly enough.

Without warning, or response, Sherlock changed from the stoic composed statue, to something sinister. He let out something resembling an animal growl as his face changed and he leapt across the table, clawing at the young man.

Lestrade jumped up, knocking over his chair in his haste and pulled Sherlock back, the young man stumbled backwards also losing his chair. John didn’t wait. He launched forward grabbing at Sherlock too, beating even the security guard standing at the door.

Sherlock was wrestling with John, all arms and limbs, and a slur of words that made no real sense. Lestrade stepped aside to avoid getting caught in the crossfire. The security guard sped around the table to secure the boy who stood still in shock. Greg tried to help John.

“It’s okay Greg, I’ve got him. I’ve got him!” John yelled over the noise, pulling Sherlock towards the door. Lestrade straightened his clothes and grabbed his chair to right it. Taking a few deep breaths to steady himself. He had not expected that. He _should_ have expected it. Sherlock was unpredictable at the best of times and he had been… a little unstable on this one. He always gave too much leeway where Sherlock was concerned.

“Bloody hell, he’s out of control!” the boy shouted, watching Sherlock being unceremoniously dragged out by John. The security guard pushed him back down in his chair with more force than was needed.

“You shut it. We’re throwing the book at you,” Lestrade pointed at him. He knew that may not entirely be true, and his response was childishly aggressive, but he couldn’t stop it coming out. This pimply boy had just fallen asleep and the child in his care had died, and instead of helping her, he had dumped her in a skip to cover it up. God, he hated his job some days.


	10. A Confession

Sherlock’s voice was becoming hoarse, his screamed words mostly unintelligible as John man-handled him roughly around the waist to cart him out of the room into the corridor.

“Let me go. Let me go!” he finally rasped out.

John released him once they were safely in the corridor and turned to close the interview room door, taking a moment to suck in some breaths of air and calm himself down before turning back to look at the state of Sherlock, who was pacing wildly. His coat was swishing about his legs as he stalked, then it flailed in the air as he turned around to change direction, like a super hero cape. John had never really noticed that before. Sherlock had always told him not to believe in heroes. But he had always idolised Sherlock, probably more than was healthy to.

“ _How could he?! How could he just do that?_ ” Sherlock was talking more to himself now, than John. Muttering as he pushed the tips of his fingers into his eye sockets, shaking his head as he continued pacing.

A police officer walked by in the corridor, grabbing her papers closer to her chest and moving a little quicker to get away from what she clearly perceived as a deranged person. She glanced back a couple of times as she continued down the corridor past them, obviously grappling with thoughts of her safety versus the obligation of her job. John gave her a friendly nod to let her know it was under control before she finally gave up and walked on. Exhausted, John slumped down into one of the cold, hard bucket chairs, letting out a loud sigh.

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” he asked. He was tired. Sherlock had outbursts like this all the time. And he often left John out of the loop. It was hardly new with them. But it was the last straw in a long few days. “You’ve been out of sorts all week.”

“I can’t… I can’t seem to…” Sherlock finally stopped pacing to look at John before finally coming over to sit in the chair beside him, with an aggressively dramatic movement, allowing his body weight to slump into it.

“Sherlock what is happening?” John was frustrated. All week this had been building and now Sherlock was out of control. “You can’t just lose control in an interview like that – at the bloody police station. In a recorded confession interview hearing. You know that!”

“John, I just can’t… that he would… how could he do that… to _her_?” he let out, making eye contact, and John realised Sherlock had tears in his eyes. John sat back in his chair suddenly shocked into silence, watching Sherlock madly wipe at his eyes trying to cover it up.

“Sherlock. _What is this?_ ”

“I can’t separate it John. This little girl and… and Rosie,” he finally admitted. “All week. You _saw_ her John. She’s the spitting image, and all week I couldn’t look at her without seeing Rosie and I couldn’t bear to see Rosie… And I just... I don’t understand it. You know I never have an issue with separating myself. If anything I…”

“Separate too much?” John finished for him. _You’re a machine,_ floated around John’s head uninvited. He had said some pretty awful things to Sherlock about his inability to connect to the victims. Sherlock was finally showing a very human side and didn’t know what to do with it.

Sherlock nodded, sniffing and wiping at his eyes again, calming a little.

“I can’t seem to keep them apart. And it’s been eating at me all week John because, she’s not even my... she’s not _my_ … I mean she’s _yours_ … obviously. And it’s got nothing to do with me. She’s just… but now that you’re living there, and she’s… and so I’ve… but we’re not… and she’s not… so I have no right to think of her like she’s my… and yet… I can’t get it out of my head.” Sherlock dropped his head into his hands, trying to get rid of the image of the dead girl and Rosie intermingling in his head.

Even in broken sentences, John understood suddenly, and his heart started to break seeing Sherlock like this. In all his worries this week, that perhaps he had become a burden, an annoyance, an interference, it had never occurred to him that Sherlock had properly _liked_ having Rosie there, that he had taken on more than either of them realised in that time. He put his hand on Sherlock’s curls to reassure him and Sherlock sat upright, looking at him, surprised by the contact. But it only made him more determined. His face changed as he looked into John’s eyes with a new intensity that made John almost stop breathing.

“And John, I want to kill _anyone_ that would do that to our… to _your_ Rosie… or to _any_ child really, but even more so _this_ girl because she looks _just like_ Rosie. And there he was… that… _boy_ ,” he spat the word out with disdain, “with the chance to have that beautiful girl, to be _responsible_ for that beautiful little girl who needed him and relied on him and he just… he just… _fell asleep?!_ Is he serious? And then instead of helping her he… he… I’m _ENRAGED!_ Why aren't you angry John?? I could eat his heart right out of his chest!” he finally yelled standing up and pacing again.

“Shhh, Sherlock. Sit down,” John said, a little embarrassed that someone might ask them to leave. Sherlock looked at the concern on John’s face and sat again, grabbing at his hands, which made John blush and look at him confused. They didn’t usually talk like this or touch each other like this.

“John, I know I let you down,” Sherlock said, matter-of-factly, dropping John's hands again once he became more self aware.

“What? No Sherlock…” John’s head tilted, in sympathy. _Why was he talking like this?_

“With Mary.” Sherlock said, and John felt a little stab again, hearing her name. “I promised. To protect her, and you - _all of you_. And I failed with Mary, I failed _you_. And I will carry that with me forever. Rosie is my responsibility now. You and Rosie both are. I owe that to Mary… and to _you_ \- that I will take care of you both and not let anything happen to you. And it was just… seeing this little girl, I felt like I was… I don’t know, looking into a future where I failed again… and I would not be able to live through that. Losing her like that. But I don’t know how to protect her, John. This little girl was just playing and then… it wasn’t even her fault and it just… how am I supposed to protect Rosie from that?”

John understood this feeling completely. For that brief moment in the morgue his heart sank. He knew Rosie was at home but for a brief moment he lost his grounding. He needed to go straight home and make sure she really was there and hug her tight. But he was a doctor. He was able to compartmentalize things in a way that perhaps Sherlock had never had to before. Of course, as Sherlock’s record went, losing important people in his life did hit him hard. John had never really thought about it much, and they hadn’t talked much about it together, either. He should have realised that it would hurt Sherlock much deeper than it had himself. He was ashamed that he hadn’t realised what his best friend had been going through.

“God,” John finally let out on a big breath. “I have to say, I’m actually relieved.”

“ _Relieved_?” Sherlock was surprised. This was not the response he expected. He sat back in his chair to take John in.

“Yes, Sherlock. _Relieved_. I thought you were sick of us. I thought this was about Rosie and me, living at Baker Street. Getting in the way of your cases. Of your routine. That we were bothering you too much.”

“What?” Sherlock suddenly changed mood, not giving his meltdown a second thought.

“You’ve just been so irritable and so… I don’t know, absent with Rosie since this case. Everything changed this week. I thought…” John didn’t know whether to finish it. He was still a bit afraid that Sherlock may agree with him. “I thought you wanted us… to go. To move out. That I’d overstayed my welcome.”

“What? No John.” Sherlock let out a heavy sigh. “No. I’m so happy you’re back. It’s… all I’ve ever wanted,” he admitted softly and then sat there silent not able to look at John.

“Do you mean that?” John asked nervously. “Even _with_ Rosie? Even when I can’t come out on cases as often?”

“John, it was never about the cases,” Sherlock said simply.

“What?” John was caught by surprise. All Sherlock focussed on was the work. When he wasn’t playing with Rosie, that was. Everything had always been about the cases. _Hadn’t it?_

Sherlock finally looked up and saw the genuine surprise in John’s face. “The cases gave me a chance to show off. But it was never really about the cases, John. I thought you knew that.”

They both sat there in silence looking at each other. John trying to figure out what was going on in Sherlock’s head, and in his own.

“You never said…” he began.

“I never said… because you had Mary when I came back. But I think now that maybe I should have. And maybe I should say something _now_. I didn’t mean for this to make you think…” Sherlock straightened himself and turned in the chair to face John better. “I know I broke us when I left. I… I know that. Things had been going so well and then I lied to you. And I left. And I was planning to tell you everything when I came back. I didn’t expect it to take as long as it did. And I honestly thought you’d just be there at Baker Street, waiting for me, ready for answers,” he admitted shrugging his shoulders.

“Sherlock…” John shook his head.

“I know it’s silly. What can I say?” he swallowed. “Blinded by love?” he tried to lighten the mood.

“ _Love?”_ John suddenly looking at him shocked and confused.

“I mean it’s ridiculous, John. We _talked_ about it all the time. God knows I’ve used it many times to convict killers. Love. But I haven’t ever experienced it for myself. Not really. I didn’t realise what it was. My logic centre of my brain had clearly gone offline and I didn’t notice. I did it to protect you. All of it. I’d do it again. I just didn’t factor in the… the human condition… how humans react to death. That you’d have moved on before I could say…”

“God, Sherlock. You know we love you too? Rosie and me? And Mary did too,” John tried to navigate what felt suddenly very awkward.

“John, I know that, yes. Of course I know that. But I mean it… the _other_ way,” Sherlock said it so quietly, and unsure.

“Oh?” John looked confused for a moment and then his brain caught up and his face changed. _OH_ , his mouth formed the shape, but no sound came out and Sherlock panicked. “How? When? Sorry I…” John was suddenly lost for words.

“I mean obviously I know you don’t think of me _that_ way. That you don’t… _lean_ that way. Even though I know that you’re bisexual. I’m not an idiot. I knew that, at least. But clearly your _preferences_ lean the other way, and all the time we’ve known each other you’ve never… so it’s fine John. Completely fine. I have no expectation, I’m just… I just… I actually never intended to say anything if I’m honest. You don’t have to say anything. I didn’t mean to… that is to say, well…” Sherlock’s words all came out in an awkward flurry.

John’s eyes widened, the more Sherlock said as he realised what was happening. He fumbled with his hands awkwardly. “Sherlock can we not…”

“John, you don’t have to say anything at all. Honestly, it’s not why I…”

“Sherlock…” John tried to interrupt again. He had no idea what he wanted to say to Sherlock, it had caught him completely off guard. His heart had started hammering in his chest. He felt completely unprepared. He doubted Sherlock would really hear anything he said in the state he was in. And he didn’t seem to be able to stop talking long enough for John to say anything anyway.

“I never got the chance to say it… and then you needed a place and I didn’t want to say anything, and have it change things or make you uncomfortable… and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable now… or make you think you have to go. I don’t _want_ you to go, John. _Obviously_. But with Rosie… things are more complicated. More so than even I realised. You have to think about her. And I hadn’t realised how much I had become attached… but it’s not my place to... And the flat might not be suitable. So, I would understand if you felt you needed to… go… now that you know… but I don’t want you to go. No. Not at all.”

John sighed. Sherlock was tying himself in knots all of a sudden. And this was not the place for this discussion. “I think we’ll be fine,” he said, finally smiling. Not acknowledging any of the other information just yet. He needed time to think. But everything felt far more simple than he realised. Sherlock was clearly panicking about having let it slip. All this time John had felt the same and said nothing, and Sherlock had… _loved him?_ He had never realised Sherlock even _thought_ like that or had any interest in that.

“Really? You’ll stay?” Sherlock said hopefully, interrupting John’s thoughts. “You and Rosie?”

“If you’re sure you still want us there?” John just needed an extra bit of reassurance.

Sherlock nodded frantically, and it was adorable how insecure he seemed all of a sudden.

“Good.” John smiled and nodded slowly. The rest could wait. “Besides, I think Rosie would have something to say about it if I moved her away from you,” he laughed suddenly, shaking his head and Sherlock couldn’t help smiling with relief. “Let’s go home, Sherlock. The case is clearly closed, or soon will be. Nothing more for you to do here. Let’s go see Rosie.”

“Why don’t you go home and get some things together and I can meet you both at the lake this afternoon. I think she’d like that,” Sherlock offered.

John looked at him, uncertain.

“Honestly, it’ll be okay John. I’ll behave. I can meet you there,” he reassured.

“Sherlock…” John was suddenly nervous.

“It’s fine, John. I just want to wrap a couple of things up here. I should clean myself up a bit before Rosie sees me too, and I should apologise to Gavin before I leave. I don’t want to make it difficult for him here – after that display,” he rolled his eyes. Sherlock always hated doing things conventional people thought were necessary. But John always loved it when Sherlock did it for his friends anyway.  
  
“ _Greg_ ,” John sighed.

“Is that _really_ his name though?” Sherlock said annoyed.

“Honestly Sherlock, I think you’re just taking the piss now.” John shook his head as he stood up.

Sherlock smiled at him and gestured with his head for John to go. “Go on. I’ll see you later.”

“Promise?” John asked a little nervously.

“Promise,” he replied.


	11. Epilogue: A Family

As Sherlock walked towards them, he took in the scene. The lake had been their favourite place to go together when the weather was good. Rosie loved the ducks. She would feed them bread and chase them around, giggling. There was a tree they liked to place their blanket under, enjoying the shade on a hot day, but still close enough to keep an eye on Rosie as she ran about. John and Rosie had beaten him there, the blanket already on the ground, a basket sitting on top. John was playing with Rosie on the grass, chasing her and lifting her up. Even from this distance he could hear her giggles. It had been a while since they had managed to come here together. Sherlock stood watching and let out a sigh. Maybe things could return to normal between them - flat mates working together on cases and raising John’s little girl. He felt a sense of calm and relief, mixed with disappointment. The disappointment he had come to terms with a long time ago though. He pushed that aside.

Suddenly Rosie spotted him, and she left the safety of John’s arms and ran straight towards him.

“Tehrok!” She screamed as she ran a little unsteadily towards him. Sherlock bent down with his arms open to accept her, Rosie throwing herself into his arms.

Sherlock clung to her. She was so light. He took a moment to sniff her hair. He always loved her smell. She cuddled into his chest and let out a little “Mmmm” in appreciation. She had missed him. He stood up still gripping tight to her and he walked with her still in his arms, holding her longer and harder than he should, but he hadn’t realised how much he had needed to hold her.

As he got closer, he smiled gently at John, only briefly, before bending down to put her on the ground. Like a wind-up toy, she barely touched her feet to the ground before she started running again. The playground nearby was calling to her.

“Come Tehrok! Come!” She squealed and giggled.

“In a minute Bee,” he said gently, giving her a relaxed smile that John had missed so much, and it made his heart beat faster seeing it. _This_ was what he had missed. Their little family, as unusual as it might be – a detective, his blogger, and a little girl. But it worked. Somehow it worked.

Sherlock sat down on the blanket without saying a word and reached into the basket, to begin unpacking the food. It was their usual routine.

“You okay?” John asked gently, coming to sit with him, letting his eyes flick back and forth between the basket and Rosie. Always keeping a watchful eye.

Sherlock hummed but didn’t look at John.

“Sherlock…” John began.

“Yes John?” Sherlock was feeling nervous all of a sudden. He couldn't look.

John placed his hand over Sherlock’s to pause the unpacking of the food. Sherlock finally looked up at John’s face and was confused by what he saw there.

“Just… can I just… I just need to say something,” John managed to stutter out.

“Okay,” Sherlock replied, swallowing hard. _Had he done something wrong already? Had John decided what he said earlier was too much and they would move out?_

“Earlier, I didn’t… when you said… I didn’t… do the moment justice. You said some things. And I didn’t…” John was struggling to say what he needed to.

“John you don’t have to…” Sherlock began, trying to let him off the hook, trying to avoid a shut down.

“No. No I _want_ to. Sherlock, I hope you know, that you’re my best friend. I mean, we’ve known each other for… god has it really been that long? For ages.”

“Well I did add a significant gap in the middle there,” Sherlock joked gently, giving himself a mental kick for bringing that up.

“Sherlock… I just… I… I’ve always known it was _more_ than that. For me it was, anyway. But then you left. And yes, it was always exciting - the cases… all of it. And I missed all of that. But that wasn’t the hardest bit. That wasn’t what I really missed when you left. What I grieved.” John swallowed hard. “It was never about the cases for me either.”

“John…”

“Sherlock just… wait… the thing is…” he sighed heavily. “The thing is that…” another sigh as his face scrunched in thought. “Here’s the thing,” he tried again.

“John you really don’t need to do this now,” Sherlock said gently.

“No. I do. I _do_. Just… give me a minute,” he demanded.

“Are you sure you can do this?” Sherlock teased him.

“Shut up!” John laughed at himself for a moment, putting his face in his hand. He was really making a mess of this.

“Tehrok! Tehrok! Come!” Rosie yelled.

“Rosie’s calling…” Sherlock teased as he started to get up, trying to encourage John, light-heartedly.

“Just...” John said forcefully, placing a hand on Sherlock’s arm to make him sit again. “…shut up for a minute.”

Sherlock sat back down and smiled to himself. John could be such an easy mark when he was flustered.

“I just needed to say,” he began again a little more confidently, “…that what I said this morning… it’s not the full story. I didn't say everything. I…”

“Yes…?” Sherlock pushed.

John sat for a moment, thinking, and then leaned in and kissed Sherlock. Longer than a peck, shorter than he would like, but enough to make the point clear. Their lips suspended together long enough to get their hearts pumping and make fireworks start up.

Sherlock froze. _John was kissing him?_

“So… okay, that’s pretty much the whole of it now,” John said.

“Okay, so…wait...” Sherlock had not expected that from John at all.

“Yeeesss?” John asked, teasing Sherlock to finish his question, his eyebrows raised.

Rosie had somehow arrived back at the blanket and interrupted them to grab Sherlock’s arm, surprising them both. “Tehroooooook!”

“Coming, little Bee,” he said lovingly to her, as he smiled at John, raising his eyebrows in defeat. She ran away from them again, giggling as she went, hoping for Sherlock to jump up and chase her.

“Go.” John nodded. “She won’t leave you alone until you go to her!” he laughed.

“But…” Sherlock looked a bit disappointed.

“It’s fine. We can do this later. Only… I just want to say… one more thing. She’s really missed you Sherlock. We both have. And you don’t ever have to think Rosie is not yours. You brought her into this world - quite literally. And it’s going to be a long time before she leaves this world, if either of us have anything to say about it. And Sherlock, we’d be _nothing_ without you. Remember that,” he said, and he gave Sherlock the most genuine smile filled with love. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief and smiled, some tears gathering in his eyes.

John leaned over and gave him one more quick kiss.

“Rosie’s waiting…” Sherlock said, swallowing hard. Not wanting to go.

“Yeah. Get going, you git. Don’t start getting sentimental on me,” John joked.

“Heaven forbid,” Sherlock retorted with a teasing eye roll, getting up to run after Rosie. _Their little girl._

John sat back and watched as the two people he loved most in the world played together in the sunshine.


End file.
